


For What It's Worth.

by CescaLR



Series: To Fly In The Face Of The HP Canon. [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: <-- there it is... wholesomeness incarnate, (but that's a given), (so far) - Freeform, AU, Age Difference, Alcohol, Also..., Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, BAMF Ginny Weasley, BAMF Harry Potter, BAMF Hermione Granger, BAMF Ron Weasley, Bisexual Harry Potter, Bisexual Male Character, Bisexual Ron Weasley, Black mum Jewish dad, Book 4: Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, Book 5: Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, Dark Magic, F/M, Gen, Grey Magic, Grimmauld Place, I mean just a warning for the Dursleys in general you can't avoid what they did, I'm tagging for the future so, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Light Magic, Not Canon Compliant, POV Ron Weasley, Slytherin's Locket, Tags May Change, Underage Drinking, Unrequited Crush, and now for actual things, anyway, anyway done!, as evidenced by Winky the house elf, cool thnx, for now......., hmmm, hmmmmmm, i forgot to actually tag, my bi boy, my other bi boy, now for the actual tags, oh right biracial Hermione fyi, ok anyway, ok so this is defnitely going in a HP/RW direction just fyi, well... they're fifteen when the do that stuff and Seamus has probably been doing it for years so...
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-11
Updated: 2018-06-11
Packaged: 2019-05-21 03:00:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 30,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14907062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CescaLR/pseuds/CescaLR
Summary: It’s his own bloody fault. His own bloody fault for being so stubborn, so quick to judge and decide and condemn, his own bloody fault for being so merlin-be-damned hot-headed.He’s heard it from Hermione countless times, he’s not that stupid, alright, he knows he buggered up /big time/.





	1. There's Something Here (In The Shadowed Corners... The Magic That Creeps It's Way Inside.)

**Author's Note:**

> Fun fact: these first two chapters were originally supposed to only be one... then I realised they were collectively 29945 words long.
> 
> When. How. What. 
> 
> So... uh... I split them in two.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Nobody’s been right since we got here,” Ron said. “Harry more than most, though.”
> 
> “Me too,” Ginny said. “I’m just better at hiding it.”

Being on the outs with your best mate isn’t exactly something that Ron recommends.

Oh, sure, it’s his own bloody fault. His own bloody fault for being so stubborn, so quick to judge and decide and condemn, his own bloody fault for being so merlin-be-damned hot-headed.

He’s heard it from Hermione countless times, and even if he pretends not to listen or gets red-eared and a little too foul-mouthed for her tastes (her upper class, Wilmslow, private school tastes, or so she’s – well, really Harry’s – told him. It must be a muggle thing-) about it when she brings it up, he’s not that stupid, alright, he knows he buggered up _big time._

The thing is – they’d talked about it. Fantasied, really, about winning, what they’d do, y’know, how things’d go. Never really thought about the fact that they _both_ wouldn’t be champions, because, well, it’s a fantasy, ain’t it? Not s’posed to be _realistic._

And then Harry’s name goes and comes out of the goblet. And Ron hadn’t acted rationally, alright, he’d been a right git about it.

It’s just – Ron knows, really, that Harry wouldn’t want the glory. _Blimey_ , he already gets flustered about Creevey’s hero worship, the extra ‘eternal glory’ wouldn’t be something he’d handle very well.

But it’s just – they’d _talked_ about it. Shared ways they thought might work about getting past the age line. And Ron knows, alright, he knows that Harry wouldn’t try without him (or Hermione or both of them) there, yeah, he knows that.

But, well, Ron’s fourteen, and that’s got to be taken into account, too, he reckons. That’s what his mum said, anyway, about them all. Teenage years are the most frustrating, for both the teenager and the parent. Mood-swings and poor decision making and all that.

Ron was kind of – well, he was always jealous, a little, of Harry. Maybe not jealous – envious, perhaps – definitely, really. A little of his fame, a little of his money, a little of how everyone at least appeared – their second year proved how fickle that appearance truly was - to like him.

A little incredulous, sometimes. Harry had all this money, Ron _knows_ for a _fact_ that he has it, and he still walks around in those castoffs that are, at best, three sizes too big (from a cousin many years younger), glasses with spellotape around the bridge that he’d never removed even after Hermione fixed them (twice), and never buys anything for himself, ever, not really. Even if he wants it, he’ll stare at it, guiltily, and move on.

Ron wishes he could have money to hoard like that. Money to save up and fix their house and get wards on the twins’ bedroom so that their experiments don’t threaten to break the house into little pieces every five minutes. Then, maybe, he’d get himself a new broom, and Ginny could finally redecorate from that bright, glaring pink she’s had since she was four, and they could extend the farm and get some more stuff so they didn’t have to rely on sometimes-maybe confunding the farmer’s market down in the muggle village to get enough fresh food to last if their crop yield is bad, since you can’t transfigure food.

The chickens are always good, though. They… eat a lot of eggs.

But anyway, back to the main point.

Being on the outs with your best mate isn’t fun. Ron doesn’t recommend it.

Ron sighed and stared up at his canopy. Seamus was snoring, as always, and Neville was doing the same. Dean was either sleeping or drawing or scrambling to finish homework – as Ron couldn’t hear snores from his bed, but then, the boy didn’t snore anyway, so it was generally pretty hard to tell what he was doing.

And Harry wasn’t in bed. Ron knew this because Harry had been in the common room, in the corner, sitting on the armchair next to the fire last he saw him.

Nobody had been on the couch, or the other armchair. They all gave Harry a wide berth. Hermione sent disapproving glances in all directions, but her expression was tinged with guilt, and Ron felt uncomfortable if he looked at her face for too long when she was like that.

After all, he was the reason for it. He felt guilty for feeling almost glad that she wanted to hang around him still, after how he’s dealt with things so far, but maybe she’s just there because – Ron doesn’t know.

He kind of hopes – nevermind.

Ron sighed, stared up at his canopy. Harry wasn’t in bed, and Ron had it on good authority – that of being the boy-who-lived’s best mate, even if that title was in dubious standing right now – the other young teenager wouldn’t come up _at all_ if someone didn’t do _something._

And Hermione wouldn’t know. Knowing Harry, he’d have lied to give her peace of mind.

Ron sighed, again. He grunted, annoyed, and got out of bed, walked downstairs. This had happened just last week, and Ron was pretty sure he’d interrupted a chat between Harry and Sirius, and honestly, he feels pretty bad about that, but there wasn’t really much that could be done.

He was still angry, though. Ron isn’t going down to _make up._ That would mean admitting he was _wrong._

No way.

Angry’s the wrong word. Maybe not. Ron know’s he’s got a temper. Maybe he’s a little angry at himself, too.

Ron exits the staircase, and Harry’s there, just as Ron had thought he’d be. He’s sitting on that same armchair, and really, it dwarfs him, though that’s not too hard in the first place.

It just – it kind of emphasises how alone he looks.

Ron’s not worried. Nope.

“You’re still up then,” Ron says, and it comes out gruffer than – but that was good, because they were arguing, and Ron wasn’t about to apologise.

This tournament killed people. Hermione had said it enough times for it to be seared into his brain. This tournament killed people.

Harry was in it.

Ron _was not, at all_ , he was _vehemently_ **not** _worried._

Ron was not very good at dealing with being worried. Harry could die in this tournament, and Ron couldn’t be there like in first year, third year, couldn’t even be as useless as he’d been in second.

It was frustrating. Ron was frustrated, and he didn’t really like the feeling. Why would you, after all, really?

Harry was on the armchair, and he hadn’t responded yet. He was sitting there, in pyjama bottoms and that old-ish Weasley jumper Ron’s mum had made for him because Ron had sent home a letter about the fact that _he doesn’t get any presents at Christmas he never gets them, mum, what do I do_ two days before the event itself –

“Evidently,” Harry said, tone dry.

They aren’t friends right now. Ron should just go back upstairs, but that would look – ugh.

Ron wishes things could be more _simple_ than this. He’s _really_ not used to feeling so conflicted and he doesn’t know what to do, but he’s not eleven anymore. He can’t just write home about it, because that would be embarrassing, first off, and because he can deal with this, alright, and Ron knows he’s shown no signs of having any _fucking_ clue about how to deal with this, but maybe Hermione might let something slip that he can use to do… something.

Maybe.

Hopefully.

Not hopefully. They aren’t friends right now, let alone best mates.

Ron should really just go upstairs again. Run away with his tail between his legs, like the coward he really is, deep down.

Right now, Harry and this whole situation might as well be a large group of spiders. Ron really does not want to confront that, thanks.

“Well?” Harry asked. “You just going to stand there?”

Ron scowled, felt his ears redden and felt annoyance at the betrayal. Stupid, annoying, unhelpful reactions to frustrating, confusing, awkward emotions.

Ron settled for sullen, as he’d been doing so often, lately. It wasn’t exactly gaining him many friends, but that was fine. He sort of had Hermione, and Dean and Seamus didn’t mind if he talked to them (when Harry was around, in a rather petty way of trying to show that he wasn’t affected by this, and his own decision had actually been a good one, which it wasn’t, but that was fine, Ron wasn’t telling anyone _else_ that) so whatever.

Still. Ron was attempting to at least be fit for the title of Gryffindor, if nothing else, so he lifted his head and walked over to the couch and sat down.

“ _Great,_ ” Harry said, and he sounded just as sullen. He’s got that worn old copy of _Quidditch Throughout the Ages_ Hermione borrowed from the library back in first year and leant to him that Harry never gave back, or returned, and Pince is probably out for his blood about that, but really, Ron knows Harry couldn’t care much less about that, because, well, he likes the book. And it’s not really stealing, just… extended borrowing.

It’s a library, after all, right?

“Well, I couldn’t sleep,” Ron said, and he felt angry at the fact he had to explain himself, but _whatever,_ who cares. It’s his own damn fault. “And how was I to know you were still down here?” He demanded.

It wasn’t the right thing to say, of course. Not even remotely what he wanted to say, either, but Ron had never been good at either of those two things and he likely never will be.

It’s a flaw.

Ron is not working on that, he’s just… kind of aware of it.

“Well, the fact that I hadn’t come up to the dorm at any point should have tipped you off,” Harry said, “Though I guess, I mean, I guess that expects you to be more observant than you actually are.” He’s being snarky like Harry is to people like Malfoy and Snape and those muggles of his.

Ron clenched one of his hands into a fist – the one Harry (hopefully) couldn’t see.

It’s not nice to be lumped in with that lot. But, well, Hermione’s voiced her opinion on that, and Ron kind of figures – given what she’s said, and all – that he… deserves it. A bit.

“Well,” Harry says, and he’s pursing his lips and his eyes are narrowed, and Ron – isn’t a fan of being on the receiving end of that expression. It’s not exactly what he’s used to, is all, but Ron figures he should get used to it.

They’re not friends right now, after all. Ron made sure of _that._

“I’m reading,” Harry said. “And if I remember _correctly,_ that bores you to death. So how about you go back upstairs and leave me alone, yeah?”

Ron doesn’t have anything to say to that.

He doesn’t leave, though. He just leans back in the couch, unclenches his hand, and stares at the fire some more.

“Fine,” Harry says. His free hand is tugging at the end of his slightly-too-big still jumper (his Mum always makes them bigger than is really needed… plus, Harry’s a scrawny git – well, not a git, but you know what... never mind - ) and Ron knows that’s from feelings he won’t voice.  “Stay. Whatever.”

He reopens his book.

They’re as stubborn as each other, really. Ron kind of figures he’ll crack first, if only because he knows he’s the one in the wrong (ha, take two letters away and you get his name, fancy that) and what have you, but that’s not tonight.

Not by a long shot.

Ron leans forward and sets up the chess set that’s on the low table – coffee table, Hermione calls it – and starts playing a game against the sentient pieces of the other side.

“Really?” Harry says.

“Yeah.” Ron returns, short. “What of it?”

“Nothing.” Harry bites out, turns a page in his book. Ron’s pretty sure he isn’t actually reading it, and when Ron loses two pawns in quick succession, he knows he’s not concentrating and that this might be a match he’s actually going to _lose._

 _Fuck._ He’s not losing to a bunch of sentient chess pieces because he and Harry aren’t really, y’know, friendly right now, _Merlin’s beard._

Neither of them says anything about it, of course. That would acknowledge the fact that they’re not paying attention to their own things but rather warily eying each other, and isn’t that just _sad,_ really.

Ron returns his lax attention to the chess game, as much as he can. The most he can manage is a stalemate, and he feels distinctly off-kilter.

Harry’s the first to get up. He doesn’t say anything, he just leaves the room, goes upstairs. Ron plays another game, gives the other time, and then goes upstairs himself.

Harry’s in bed, curtains drawn. Dean’s getting back into bed (likely from a late-night trip to the loo) and he catches Ron’s eye.

“Made up yet?” Dean asks. Ron glowers at him for an answer, gets back into his own bed and – as much as you can – slams his curtains shut himself.

“Guess not,” Dean mutters to himself, but Ron can hear it loud and clear over Seamus and Dean’s snores.

Harry probably can, too.

* * *

 

They’d made up after the dragon, sort of. In the tent. Ron tried apologising but Harry just grinned at him and okay, Ron can work with that, that’s much preferred to talking things through, being all sappy and shit.

Hermione had done her usual eye roll and accompanying ‘ _boys_ ’, which was whatever, really. If she wanted to do that, that was fine, it was just kind of annoying that she berated him if he did similarly regarding girls – more bewilderment, truthfully, than (what coming from her seems like) exasperation - but whatever.

Over the last four years, Ron assumed Dean and Seamus and Neville had gotten used to Hermione barging in. At least, she’d never managed to barge in when they were changing, thank Merlin.

So when she barged in, yammering at Harry about a book she’d found that could help with the egg, and Ron sat up, rubbed at his eyes blearily and caught Harry’s tired gaze, rolled his eyes, and Harry grinned slightly, shrugging, Ron was pretty sure he heard a ‘finally’ coming from somewhere, but he didn’t really care to look.

“Merlin, woman,” Seamus complained. He always did that, likely because he slept in his boxers and had to hide away under the canopy until she left. “Must you at _this time_?”

“You’ll be late for breakfast,” Hermione said, snappishly, as she always did, “It’s half seven.”

“Really?” Dean groaned into his pillow, sighed, and sat up. Dean didn’t wear a t-shirt to bead, but he wore everything else (pyjama bottoms, socks) so he didn’t have to worry too much.

Hermione muttered a spell and Dean’s shirt flung itself at him. “Honestly,” she sighed. “Can none of you keep to alarms?”

“Nope,” Harry said, and he seemed a lot more cheerful now than he had for a while.

“Funny you say that since you’re the exception,” Seamus groused. “Blimey, mate, you’ve gotten up at six am automatically since forever.”

“Ingrained,” Hermione said, under her breath, and there was that guilty, disapproving frown again. Ron’s stomach churned, and he grimaced. “Now, get dressed,” She glowered at them all in turn – especially the two she was actually here for; Ron and Harry. Harry and Ron.

They were friends again. Best mates, and all that.

As sappy as it sounds... it was nice.

“Alright, alright,” Ron says, and Hermione smiles at him, at them; her friends, nods and turns on her heel, strides out of the room.

Harry’s expression is peculiar when Ron glances at him, but it changes easily and quickly into a sort-of smile, the genuine kind, and Ron shrugs in response, gets up, and goes to the bathroom.

This could have gone a lot worse, all things considered. Ron knows it probably should have, that it would if Harry wasn’t as – Ron’s not sure of the word. Lenient, maybe, when it comes to his friends and their mistakes.

Yeah. Lenient. That fit. Ron didn’t quite deserve it, he figured, but he was glad nonetheless.

It was nice, having his best friend back, is all. Ron wasn’t going to say that _out loud,_ of course, and neither was Harry.

 _‘boys_ ’, Hermione had said, yet again, with that always-accompanying eye-roll, last night during the celebration, and Ron figured she had as much trouble understanding them as he did her, or really girls in general. And when she didn’t understand something, she _really_ didn’t like it, and she shoved that under a fair bit of disdain; like with Divination and flying. She was much better than Ron or Harry about the whole ‘feelings’ thing, but, Ron could tell, not really by that much. It just seemed like a lot because they were both so crap at it.

Well, whatever. Ron was most definitely going to try harder this year, he was.

* * *

 

And… He ballsed it up again.

Ron didn’t know what he expected of himself, really. When the Yule Ball had first been mentioned, he’d had this vague pit of dread form in the bottom of his stomach somewhere, and that was tenfold now it was so close, especially because he didn’t actually have a date.

Maybe he’d expected that he’d at least be able to ask Hermione without making an arse of himself, but apparently not.

Harry had, though silently, attempted to stop him. And, yeah, Ron could probably smack himself for what he’d said – there goes his usual lack of tact – but, well, he wasn’t going to.

She didn’t have a date. She was lying; why else would she hide who it was from them? They were her best friends, really if he’s honest her only friends, so it’s not like they don’t know other stuff that’s probably more embarrassing or incriminating or what have you. Who her date to the Yule Ball pales in comparison to brewing illegal Polyjuice potion in the girl’s lavatory in second-year, after all.

Ron tries not to think about it. Tries not to think about how he would have actually kind of liked going with Hermione. After breakfast, Harry pats him on the shoulder and gets up, Ron mentally sighs, and they leave for their first lesson.

Hermione pointedly sits with Neville – not that she doesn’t do this a lot; the desks are in pairs, after all, and Neville’s kind of the odd-one-out of their yeargroup, so when Harry and Hermione pair up Ron has to go with him, and when Hermione and Ron pair up it’s Harry’s turn, and what have you – but it’s kind of frustrating, and Ron’s ears redden, he can feel that tell-tale burn and he blames it on anger.

It’s easier than what it might actually be because Ron really doesn’t deal with embarrassment well.

* * *

 

Harry somehow manages to pull off a miracle, and they have dates to the Yule Ball. It’s the Patil girls; Parvati and Padma, and for the life of him Ron can’t quite remember which one’s his date until they’re standing right in front of each other and she’s eying his robes with obvious disdain.

Oh, great. So she was snobbish about that, was she? Wonderful. It wasn’t like Ron already felt awful walking around in these things that smell like his great aunt, old and musty and kind of perfumed in a really, really _bad_ way, but whatever.

“Well, come on then.” She said, after McGonagall showed up and told them to go inside already (not her words exactly, but the sentiment of them) and Ron sort-of gestured goodbye to Harry – who did similarly but with an accompanying acknowledging noise as he stared apprehensively at the doors to the Great Hall and Parvati stared at him with a mix of admiration and wariness – and then Padma linked arms with Ron rather forcefully and strode into the hall, found them good seats so they could see the procession of the champions and their dates.

Maybe Ron could find Hermione after, apologise, in the way she’d told him to regarding Harry but that Harry hadn’t apparently wanted. Merlin, this sort of thing was confusing. Ron didn’t really want to apologise, but he knew it was his own fault.

Again. 

* * *

 

Hermione came with _Viktor Krum_ and didn’t _tell them._

Ron felt an irrational anger focused on both participants. He knew now they were probably unofficially dating, and whatever. She was happy, and Ron had to go and ruin it – but he was right! Krum was _seventeen_ and she was _fifteen,_ he was _way_ too old for her, and though laws about that in the wizarding world weren’t exactly taught, you kind of just knew fifteen-year-olds shouldn’t date seventeen-year-olds. Even just given how they look, there’s so much difference in maturity.

Merlin knows Ron’s a mess, really. He can’t imagine being this age’s much easier for Hermione, given that she’s a girl.

(Y’know… well, his mum sat them all down –  separately - at various points to teach them about this stuff. She’d told Ron about that stuff partially because he had a sister, partially because she didn’t want him to freak out too much when he had a girlfriend, and partially because his second best mate was, well, female. Point is, Ron knows way more than he’d ever want to. About _that._ )

Still, though. _Viktor Krum?_ Couldn’t it have been _anyone_ else? Ron _idolised_ the guy, and now he was dating his second-best-friend, and Ron doesn’t really know what to think about that.

Fucking hell, he had an action figure, he supported Bulgaria in the World Kup, he had one old-ish, worn poster in his room on the left wall of that very team with Krum _fucking_ front and centre, he had copies of Quidditch Weekly – free from the store with any purchase of anything, they got them with food and drink they couldn’t farm - that had his _ugly mug_ plastered across the cover in bright technicolour, moving and scowling and occasionally smiling ever so slightly, and Ron didn’t really know what to do. He didn’t want to burn them, but he didn’t want to have them, though really, he wanted to keep them and forget about this whole debacle, but that wasn’t happening.

_Great._

Ron defaced his action figure at the first possible chance and regretted it immediately. He’d paid for that, for one. And – well, he liked having it. It was _cool. He_ shoved that feeling down, threw it across the room, and – once again – attempted to slam his canopy curtains shut.

He sits on his bed, arms resting on his knees. Ron had been reading the quidditch weekly they’d been sent that Ginny had read last week; it was old news, but it was interesting, and the Cannons’ chances were looking up.

Probably. Maybe. In all likelihood, no, but a guy can dream.

Anyway, there Krum’s face was, yet again, plastered across the cover in tacky tabloid fashion. It wasn’t a tacky tabloid, though, it was a sports newspaper, it just liked the muggle way of doing things that ended up looking a bit trashy, is all.

Ron couldn’t exactly deface this either because he needed to give it to the twins next week and he really needed to finish reading that segment about the new manager for the Cannons, but Ron wasn’t really in the mood. An interview with Krum was on the page after, and Ron wouldn’t be able to think about anything else, because the guy was dating _Hermione,_ and he couldn’t even say her name properly!

And it wasn’t _that_ hard. Her-my-on-e. if Ron can manage, a seventeen-year-old accomplished wizard, seeker for Bulgaria and Triwizard Champion shouldn’t have much trouble, especially since Ron was pretty sure it wasn’t even an English name in the first place, and the guy could speak pretty good English for someone who wasn’t a native speaker, so figuring out how to say some foreign name shouldn’t be _that_ hard.

And he was _seventeen!_ An adult. Hermione _was not_ an adult. That _can’t_ be good.

She was fifteen, sure. Ron knew that. A year older than the rest of them. Birthday in September. But still!

Ron scowled at nothing and opened the magazine-newspaper-whatever to the right page, ignored the small picture of Krum in the corner, and read. He wasn’t going to let it bother him, _he wasn’t,_ Ron just really didn’t like Krum, and he really was _not_ happy with Hermione.

She could have told them. If she was worried about fame or whatever, well, her best friend was _Harry Potter._ If she thought they’d tell or something, she was bonkers.

* * *

 

Ron kind of figured out he was jealous on his own, thanks, but Harry told him anyway, sat across from him cross-legged at the end of Ron’s bed. They had the egg sitting there innocuously between them, and Harry had been glaring at it for a solid minute after they lapsed into silence, after they’d exhausted all the possibilities they could think of and the silencios they’d cast over the bed so as not to wake the others broke.

Harry cast it again. “ _Silencio,”_ he said, quietly, with wand movements close enough to right that it didn’t matter they were a little stiff, a little off, with enough power behind it that Ron could sort-of feel the buzzing nature of a silencing spell forced into a sort-of ward shape settle over his skin.

“You’re jealous., Harry said. Ron blinked at the non sequitur, then registered what he’d meant by it.

“No, I’m not,” Ron denied, tone sullen. Harry's lips twitched, and Ron granted it was probably warranted.

“Alright,” Harry said, easily. He was like that – let things slide if it was obvious the other person wasn’t comfortable. Unless he didn’t like them, like with Snape or Malfoy, in which case he tended to push his luck a little, but Harry seemed to have a good head on his shoulders about when to stop before he went too far and got into too much trouble. “But you aren’t happy that Hermione’s dating Krum, yeah?”

“Well, no,” Ron grumbled. “He’s _seventeen._ It’s not right.”

Harry pursed his lips. “Seventeen’s the age you’re an adult here, isn’t it?” Harry asked.

“Yeah,” Ron said. “It’s not right.”

“Maybe not,” Harry said. “But eighteen’s the age in the muggle world. Hermione still works on that scale. I mean, I do too.”

Ron shrugged, helplessly. Harry inclined his head.

“I want you to think about it,” Harry said. “If you’re jealous.” Harry looked like he wanted to say more, maybe, but changed his mind.

“Well, I won’t be able to sleep,” Harry said. “If you can’t either, we could play a game of chess or something.”

Ron checked how tired he felt and shrugged. Not really tired.

“Alright,” Ron said, and Harry nodded, cancelled the spell.

Ron found the action figure again, once it had all blown over or thereabouts, once him and Hermione were mostly back on good terms and he’d found out about the hate mail and the nasty articles and wanted to punch something, screw magic, wanted to do something about the people hurting her because of who she chose to be with romantically.

Ron didn’t exactly approve, still, but his opinion on it didn’t rightly matter. Maybe his mum’s did, but it wasn’t as bad as it’d been back in Easter, when she’d thought Hermione was stringing Harry along due to one of Skeeter’s articles and Ron hadn’t been more ashamed of anything his mother had done until then, really, and Ron could quite easily tell most of his siblings felt the same.

She was just a bit old-fashioned, is all. At least, that’s what Ron had figured – he hadn’t figured she’d be suckered in so easily, but then, he probably should have, given her infatuation with Lockhart.

It’s just – she was his _mum._ And she’d acted worse than he did on a regular basis, and that’s saying something.

Really, she’d been petty and childish, according to Ginny, and Ron couldn’t exactly say she was wrong.

But that wasn’t right now, anyway.

Right now, he was staring at an action figure on the bedside table in complete confusion. He didn’t _want it,_ why would someone have gone to lengths to fix it up?

He didn’t want it. He _didn’t._

Ron picked it up and squinted at the note attached, scowled, grabbed his wand and cast a spell his mum had taught him years ago. The writing looked more legible after that, though it was still bad script, and it took a bit for Ron to figure out what it said.

It was in muggle pencil, Ron could tell. The lines were faint and thin, and that really didn’t help, but whatever.

_Hermione asked if I could fix this up for you. Don’t break it again, Weasley, it was a pain to mess with the spells._

_Seriously, get over yourself._

_Dean._

Right. Well, whatever. Ron shoved the figure to the bottom of his trunk.

Ron used that spell Hermione used when correcting her mistakes, the one that wiped away ink, and it kind of worked. Enough so that Ron could scribble _thanks_ without a signature. Ron dropped it on Dean’s table, and figured he’d probably know, Ron didn’t have to do anything embarrassing like thank him in person.

In _public._

The twins were supposed to give the magazine to Percy, but Ron suspected they never actually did. Regardless, he saw Harry with it, and it had been weeks since then, so honestly, it didn’t rightly matter.

“You checked that, right?” Ron said.

“The twins didn’t jinx it,” Harry said. “Weird that they gave it to me, but I’m not complaining.”

“Probably because we’re friends and I can send it home.” Ron said. “They usually forget. Or, well, don’t bother.”

“Oh,” Harry said. “Alright, yeah, makes sense.”

Ron nodded, dropped down into the free chair opposite.

“Have you had any – I don’t know, whatever, about the egg?” Ron asked.

“Epiphanies,” Harry said, and yeah, that was the word he’d been looking for. “And no.”

Harry pursed his lips and stared down blankly at the page. Ron didn’t scowl at the fake Krum on the cover, he stared at the wall instead.

“Maybe Hermione’ll find something soon,” Ron said, but Harry didn’t look too optimistic. Ron didn’t feel it, either. “Maybe,” Harry said anyway, and Ron left it at that.

“Which part are you on?” Ron asked, gesturing to the Quidditch Weekly in his hands.

“Discussion about the world cup,” Harry said. “Collection of letters that were sent in and some writings by journalists.” Harry shrugged. “A lot of them are praising Bulgaria for what they managed, a lot more are talking about how good Ireland were, a bunch are mainly waxing lyrical about Krum.” Harry’s lips twisted in amusement. Ron figured there was also a kind of envy there, too, that he didn’t want to think about – after all, Krum had fame, but he had fame that didn’t change on the whims of the country he lived in. People didn’t suddenly hate him for no real reason without any proof, didn’t suddenly cry their support at the slightest thing. Weren’t temperamental arseholes, in short.

After all, he’s dating a minor and nobody bats an eyelid except to send _her_ hate-mail. Ron’s kind of surprised Harry’s never gotten any mail about the whole boy-who-lived thing, but maybe that’s a good thing. No pus in envelopes for you if you don’t get said envelopes in the first place.

And Ron’s not stupid. Harry probably has a lot of enemies he’s never even heard of, let alone met in person. There are people out there way more dangerous than Malfoy or Snape. Hell, even You-Know-Who only wants to kill him. There – there are worse things.

Ron tries not to worry too much until they’re in the thick of it. At that point, there’s no backing out anyway.

Even if you’re in the middle of the forest following spiders towards a huge den of Acromantula that very much want to eat you. Ron does not have nightmares about that, by the way. _No_ , he _doesn’t._

“Right,” Ron said in response. “Cannons’ management transfer should be on the next page,” He said, avoiding having to acknowledge Krum at all.

“Yeah,” Harry said. “And then there’s the interview with Krum, and the interview with the Irish team, and then there’s a bunch of pages of speculation, and the last half of the last page is dedicated to the attack.”

Harry pursed his lips, again. “They did a full feature in the issue before that one,” Ron said, and Harry nodded, relaxed his expression. “Alright,” Harry said, and that was that dealt with.

Couldn’t things be that easy all the time? Ron really wished they would be. It’d be so much less complicated.

“D’you read the interview?” Harry asked.

“With the Irish team?” Ron feigned ignorance. Harry’s tone was light, unaffected, but there was that gleam in his eyes Ron had gotten used to looking for. “Yeah, read it through.”

“Looks like you skipped one, then,” Harry said, tone still light, and Ron attempted to supress the automatic scowl, but he couldn’t stop his ears from burning a bright red like they always did.

Gah. The betrayal.

“No,” Ron said. “Don’t think I did.”

Harry hummed and turned the page, started reading Krum’s interview.

“Why don’t – why aren’t you angry?” Ron asked. “He’s an adult, and she’s not. It’s – wrong.”

“He’s not an adult, though.” Harry said. “He’s seventeen. He’s a teenager. I’ll give you that it’s a noticeable gap now, the two years between fifteen and seventeen, but there are people who are married that are over a decade apart in age, and they’re muggles,” Harry said, “A decade is a fair chunk of their lifespans.”

Muggles did live less long than Wizards did. It was kind of weird, Ron thought, people not living beyond one-hundred on a regular basis. Muriel was at least one-twenty, after all. And that’s because she was the younger sister to his grandad, who had died in the last war, and had his kids young enough. At the start of his twenties. Ron’s dad was the youngest. None of the rest were still around; some in other countries, one dead, one a squib and living in Russia. For some reason.

“I guess,” Ron said.

“Just… calm down a little about it,” Harry said. “And, well, calm down about him in general. You still get a little starstruck, and you don’t even like him anymore.” Harry carefully wasn’t looking at him, and Ron didn’t try not to scowl this time.

“Shove it,” Ron grumbled, and Harry laughed a little, and whatever.

“I’m just saying,” Harry said. “Fame’s not fun, really. Try and treat him like a normal human being who’s dating your friend, not _Viktor Krum, star seeker,_ and what have you.”

Ron can’t exactly do that. But – well, he will leave Hermione alone about it from now on.

Hermione was invited to go to Bulgaria by Krum for a two-week break in the holidays. She’d sent him a letter, due to their unspoken promise of not lying about this sort of thing anymore, and it was short and concise and to the point like Hermione’s letters never were.

She was going for the first two weeks. She’d been encouraged to bring her family along. As they were muggles, they’d be staying somewhere muggle-friendly, of course. Krum’s family were ‘rather nice’, as she’d put it, and didn’t treat Hermione’s family like incompetent children, which was always a plus.

Hermione said she’d probably write less in these weeks, so Ron should make sure he keeps in contact with Harry, so he doesn’t feel too lonely.

 _After what happened…_ she’d wrote, and there was the the tell-tale signs of her erasing spell left on the page. She hadn’t bothered with clean-up, in her hurry, which was unlike her.

Hermione probably wanted the break that Krum had offered. Getting out of the country where you-know-who was back and a real threat. Getting her parents out, too, come to think of it.

Two weeks wasn’t long, but if there was an attack on the muggle area she lived in, well, it might just save her life and the lives of her parents. After, Hermione had written, she’d be back for the summer, at which point – if he wanted, which, of course, he did – she could come to visit.

Ron couldn’t tell her she’d end up staying at Grimmauld Place for the rest of the summer if she did, given Mad-Eye’s paranoia, but, well, hopefully, she’d figure out he wasn’t home.

Anyway, Ron finished up his own letter in response, which told her as much as he could without knowing strong enough privacy spells – most of which were Dark, anyway, so Ron didn’t really want to know them, because they involved blood authentication, and that was the easiest magic to mess up if messed with and plus, it was _Dark_ – and hoped it was enough.

Ron hadn’t gotten a letter from Harry yet, but that was probably because the Dursleys overworked him every summer. He probably hadn’t had a chance to, yet, so Ron decided taking Hermione’s advice about keeping up regular contact wouldn’t be such a bad idea.

Except, well, he couldn’t keep up regular contact. He was allowed one letter each week – until Mad-Eye got paranoid again and forbid them on the same day, at which point it was kind of random but you had to wait at least seven days between letters sent out – as were the rest of them, and it was frustrating. Ron didn’t even know why they were here, yet, really. There hadn’t been any important ‘Order’ meetings yet, they’d mostly just been talking about what very little they knew about you-know-who’s current forces.

And something else. But there were serious and semi-dangerous anti-eavesdropping spells put in place when they talked about _that,_ so they hadn’t had a chance, yet. To figure out what it was. And besides, it’s not been that long.

* * *

 

_Harry,_

_Looks like Hermione’s of to Bulgaria for a couple weeks. I guess it’s good she’s getting out of the country, what with what’s happened._

_I really do want to tell you more about what’s going on, but, well, we’re under oath. I can’t, and I mean that. Sorry, mate._

_I can say we aren’t at the burrow, and I can say where we’re staying is a right mess, a fairly dangerous one, and that you aren’t missing out on much except being frustrated and angry all the time (it’s the house, there’s something about it, nobody here’s in a really good mood, Moony said it ‘exemplifies negative emotions and character flaws’, whatever that means) and that Snuffles is here, and that you should be able to come here really soon._

_At least before the summer’s half gone. I don’t know why they’ve stuck you in Privet Drive, with those muggles of yours, after everything, and we’ve been complaining about it. They should let up soon, I’ll keep you posted._

_Anyway, how’s the HOM essay going? Hermione asked me to ask you, by the way. I haven’t even started mine, and I don’t plan to. It’s summer, not school. It can wait a bit longer._

_We can’t write letters often. Never-Our-Actual-Professor is paranoid as all hell. Dumbledore said if he can’t find anyone, he will actually be our professor next year, which will hopefully be good. Fred and George overheard it, so I don’t know how much truth is in that, but whatever._

_Well, that’s it. We should be able to send you some food, soon. The Dursleys never give you enough anyway, and Mum’s a right scary woman when she wants to be._

_Hermione said you should ‘sign’ letters. So, I guess – whatever. Speak to you soon. Sort of._

_Ron._

* * *

 

When Harry shows up, he’s different.

Ron knows it’s not the house – blimey, he _knows_ , he can feel when that insidious, slimy black magic creeps up his spine and makes the hairs stand up on the back of his neck and makes him angry, frustrated, volatile, makes him more quick to jealousy and judgment and all the other shit – insecurity, fear, what have you. There was a tiny, tiny spider – what Hermione calls a ‘money spider’ in his room the other day, and he _literally_ **_couldn’t move_** _._ Ron usually reacted with flight when it came to spiders, he’d admit that, but when they were that small he felt safe enough to react with fight and squash them – but Ron had felt it, that creeping cold, that gross, slimy, dirty dark magic, and he _couldn’t move._

The trace didn’t work in here, thank Merlin. Otherwise, the sheer amount of bat-bogey hexes Ginny casts when she’s in that similar dark magic-induced mood would have got he shut away in Azkaban without so much as a by-your-leave. Or a trial.

Speaking of trials.

Harry was back, because he’d ‘performed the Patronus charm in front of a muggle’. Nevermind the muggle was his cousin, nevermind the muggle was fully aware of magic. Never mind that said cousin certainly treated Harry much, much worse than Harry had ever treated him, and the wizarding world didn’t give any single fucks about it, or at least, that’s how it seemed.

Hermione was back now, of course. The both of them honestly wanted to be there, witnesses to Harry’s character – Ginny had near hexed _their mum_ when she’d said she couldn’t go with them, and honestly, Ron had been in one of those dark-moods again, and he’d very nearly done that very thing, but caught himself just in time.

Hermione had had a row with Molly, though. A genuine, proper, angry debate. Hermione had apparently started reading up on wizarding law and legal defence – because of course she had – and she knew a lot more than his Mum, but his Mum was the adult here, so she won by default.

It wasn’t fair. Harry – no matter his current disposition, which Ron was fairly sure wasn’t to do with the house, though it certainly wasn’t helping – shouldn’t have to go alone. Even Dumbledore isn’t saying much of anything on the matter. The man hasn’t been around much since Harry showed up, and Ron’s got an inkling that’s entirely _why,_ and Ron doesn’t _understand._

Oh. And there it is again. That creeping cold, crawling up his spine, burrowing it’s way into his brain and settling there, hollow. This is the worst kind. It sneaks up when he’s confused, upset, irrationally jealous, and it makes him think about things. How much smarter everyone else is, how being good at chess means nothing in reality and it’s just another show of his uselessness, how emotionally capable Hermione is because ever since she’s been here, the only signs of the house’s magic affecting her have been the lines between her eyebrows she gets on occasion, how quiet she gets every now and again.

The way the house affects Harry is more obvious. And not in the way you think. It’s affecting him when he gets subdued, beaten down, tired, _sad,_ when he lies awake all night in the bed next to Ron’s own, and Ron can’t fall asleep to the uneven breathing because it’s wrong and it’s too quiet and Harry’s hurt, he’s hurting, but there’s nothing any of them can really do about it.

At least when Harry’s yelling at them he looks _alive._

“He’s got PTSD,” Hermione said to him, quiet, one night, after Harry had gone up while Ron was in the middle of a chess game that was, once again, against the other side’s sentient pieces.

“What’s that?” Ron asked.

“Post-Traumatic-Stress-Disorder,” Hermione said. “It’s obvious if you know the symptoms, and I do. I looked them up.”

Ron nodded, moved his bishop. The pawn he hadn’t really noticed took it, and Ron sighed. He wasn’t paying attention, not really. He hadn’t all summer; _Percy_ had beat him, and Ron _had_ hexed him, and the Twins didn’t even comment _once,_ and that somehow made it _worse._ He felt volatile, ready to explode, ready to do something _drastic._ And then it had been gone, and Ron had done more than hex his brother with something like flippendo, he’d actually _hurt_ him, and Ron had been sent to his room in this house that wasn’t theirs and got in his head and in _everyone’s_ head, and Ron sat there, staring at the wall for four hours, and didn’t go down for tea.

“This house isn’t good for him,” Hermione said, tugging at the bottom of her cardigan and worrying at her lip. “No shit,” Ron grumbled, and Hermione didn’t even lightly smack him on the arm, didn’t reprimand him in any way at all, and that was so out-of-character that Ron paused before he moved his night, looked up at her and felt that same churning in his stomach he got whenever she looked like she felt guilty about something.

“I have the choice to just leave,” She said. “And he doesn’t. I – I mean, I never really thought about that before. What it’s like to not have family in your corner if something happens.

“I never really got racist comments,” Hermione said, quietly. She’d explained that to him, once, a while ago. What racism was, and it sounded so much like blood purist rhetoric it made his blood boil. “I guess I just look tanned to most people. And my hair can be explained by my dad, too, as well as my mum.” Hermione shrugged. Much more affected than she looked, obviously, but Hermione was good at that. “But mum _is_ black, and dad _is_ Jewish, and I got flack for the latter _once,_ and he got expelled,” Something flashed across her vision at that, and Ron distinctly had the impression that the two weren’t linked but that the boy had somehow done something _worse_ to someone, at some point. Ron genuinely didn’t understand how people could be like that.

“Yet,” Hermione sighed. “Harry suffered through _so much_. And nobody _ever_ did _anything._ They still don’t.”

Ron nodded, quiet _. Still don’t_. That’s true, really, and it hurts a little, the bluntness of it, because Ron tries to help, but he doesn’t, really. Look at what he did last year, if you want an example.

Hermione narrows her eyes at him, slaps him lightly on the arm. “ _We_ do _our_ best,” She says, as if trying to will away any thoughts he had about how little he did anything, either, but the coldness had taken hold again, and that hollow little space the house had carved for itself was back, and Ron didn’t want to hear it. The coldness, or her words, or anything. The cold insidious magic just made him angrier, as if he was trying to burn it out of him, as if the emotion could do _anything_ at all.

She seemed to see it take hold, because she deliberately softened her expression and squeezed his arm lightly before moving back. The space was good, Ron didn’t want to do anything he’d regret.

She didn’t seem to either. When the magic took hold of her, she got a glint in her eyes that sent shivers down everyone’s spines, if they were being honest. She was good at hiding it, but it made her unnaturally quiet, as if she was attempting to hold herself back from something, anything, whatever the house wanted from her. She avoided him then, him and Harry and Ginny and the Twins – especially the twins – and holed herself up in the safe-ish parts of the library.

Ron didn’t really want to know what books the House led her to reading. All of the ones left in the room were grey at best, and that wasn’t always a good thing. Grey was neutral – but neutral had its awful side, too.

It’s called Dark, and everyone believes it’s dark, but the Killing Curse was originally a Grey spell. Invented to give animals a quick and painless death. Used in _farming._

Then, of course, someone got the bright idea to use it on a person. The spell was never used again in such simple circumstances.

Ron tried for a smile, and it felt forced, but she returned it – probably just as falsely – and that was fine. Pretending was fine if everyone was doing it.

Ron made his next move, and the pieces put him in checkmate. Ron didn’t register it until he was standing with his wand out, but he blew up the set with an underpowered _bombarda._

Oh. If he hadn’t underpowered it… that would have been _bad._

Hermione simply repaired the set as much as she could. The pieces were meant to break, so they fixed themselves, but the board had a little crack in it Hermione couldn’t fix.

Bombarda was Grey, too. Dark magic leaves traces, scars, ugly sentient buildings like the one they’re in right now. Light magic leaves traces, and yes, even scars – and protective, sentient buildings. Like Hogwarts.

Grey magic didn’t leave traces. But it certainly left scars. It’s why Grey rituals are the only ritual magic still around. They don’t leave traces. They don’t affect the soul. It is simple magic, and simple incantation. It doesn’t take any real emotion, good or bad, and it doesn’t take anything more than what you deem it requires.

Light magic can mean well. Dark magic can mean the opposite. Both will and have done awful things. Both have done good things, too, because Ron’s not stupid. Harry’s scar is proof of some less-than-legal spellwork, and not that of You-Know-Who’s creation.

Sacrificial magic is Dark magic. But Lily Potter did it anyway. Ron figures the life of your one-year-old child is more important than a mark on your soul. And, she didn’t sacrifice anyone other than herself. That probably counts for something, but either way, that kind of magic isn’t light.

It’d be in those books, the ones upstairs, in the library. Ron wondered if Hermione had read anything about that yet. He forgot, sometimes, that things you knew from having a curse-breaker older brother, a dragon-keeper older brother, and a Dad that’s likely an expert on meddling with muggle artefacts – rather ironically, given his job – made someone like Ron seem smarter than he actually was.

It was just common knowledge, a lot of it. But some of it wasn’t, and Ron figured that meant something. Maybe.

“You should go up,” Hermione said, her voice drifting into his awareness. Ron pocketed his wand. He hadn’t realised he’d spaced out, and now that he thought about it, he really was very tired.

“You should too,” Ron said, a little gruffer than he’d meant. Awkward.

Hermione gave him a little half-smile, and it was more genuine than the last one. He’d take it.

Ron went upstairs, knocked on the door and when he didn’t get an answer, went in. Harry was on his bed, staring up at the ceiling, and he hadn’t changed into his normal clothes yet.

Today had been the trial. Ron dearly wishes he could have gone, maybe. Been there for something. Moral support, if nothing else.

“How’d it go?” Ron asked, because neither of them are asleep and honestly, pretending is more tiring.

“It went,” Harry said, dully. So the coldness had him too, then. It lasted longest, with Harry.

Ron was pretty sure Harry didn’t know about the House’s sentient magic. Nobody really talked about it. But he had to have noticed everyone’s (violent, dangerous, concerning, worrying, all manner of adjectives) mood-swings.

Once, early on, before Ron had built up a proper tolerance, the house had hit him with a wave of _everything_ so quickly that he’d actually felt _homicidal._ It had been sickening, after, that feeling, that feeling of wanting somebody _dead,_ wanting somebody well and truly as nothing more than _ashes,_ thinking  - no, fantasising, about the ways it could be done.

Someone had stunned him. Ron was pretty sure it was Ginny. Regardless, everyone calmed down after a day or two, and things went back to normal, and that was before Harry’s arrival, and really, he didn’t need to know how weak Ron’s will _really_ was. 

* * *

 

Ron was the one to find the locket, first. It didn’t have any enchantments on it, he could feel that. Oh, it was dark to be sure, but it was relatively safe to pick up. The clasp didn’t work and the front, with it’s emerald ‘S’, also proved what that tacky thing was all about.

“Slytherin,” Harry said, when he held it, frowning. His expression was strange, like he was hearing something they couldn’t, like in second-year with the basilisk in the pipes, except this time, there was no snake.

Harry traced the ‘S’ with a finger, and Ron figured Harry didn’t realise he was doing it.

It looked like a snake, to Ron. Slytherin made sense, but – well. Ron figured the man himself must have been very narcissistic, if this was one of those family heirlooms.

“Fits with the extravagance of the Chamber,” Harry said. Ron had never actually seen the chamber. He wasn’t about to ask to go see it.

“It was actually pretty cool,” Harry said, confiding. “If terrifying and gross and full of now-dead basilisk.”

Ron nodded. He took the locket from Harry, and it was heavier than it had any right to be, really.

Ron wondered what was inside.

“Maybe parseltounge would open it,” He said, at the same time Harry says “It feels familiar.”

Ron tightens his grip around the golden object, frowns at Harry in confusion.

“Familiar?” He asked.

“Like I…” Harry hesitated. “Know it. From somewhere.”

Harry frowned at it and absently massaged his scar. Ron turned the locket over, looked for some inscription or something, but there was nothing. It was a locket. One that couldn’t be opened.

“It’s a Dark object,” Ron said, because he could _feel_ it. In his bones. The magic was different to that of the creeping cold of Grimmauld Place, but it was no less insidious. It _was_ harder to find, but living in this house has made it easier to tell his own magic from an intruding presence, and this one was _dangerous_ in ways the Black House’s magic was _simply irritating_. It was actually downright terrifying, now that Ron was looking for it.

Harry looked pale, much paler than his usual tan. He must have realised the strength of this thing’s magic, he must have, but he wasn’t really looking at it.

He was listening to something, again. Ron couldn’t hear anything, the room was practically silent aside from the surprisingly docile doxies in the curtains (they left them alone if they didn’t go near, and Mum was going to go out for some more stuff you need to get rid of them with a couple escorts soon) and the two teen’s breathing.

“It’s hissing,” Harry said, suddenly. Ron felt they were moving into dangerous territory, here. He tightened his grip on the object and eyed his friend, wary. The creeping cold was tugging at his core, but the – insidious magic of the locket was stronger, and –

The creeping cold felt _scared,_ almost. In a weird, twisted way, it almost felt worried.

Ron threw the locket over to the other side of the room. It smashed into the cabinet and Harry – with his ever fast reflexes – immediately cast a reparo, and the whole thing fixed itself.

They stared at it, then each other, and let out a collective breath they hadn’t realised they’d been holding.

“We should…” Harry gestured, but he was still staring at the Locket – returned to staring at the locket, but whatever.

“Yeah.” Ron agreed, but he found himself not moving. “We should.”

They were saved from doing anything stupid by the arrival of his Mum. She eyed the cabinet with obvious suspicion and the curtains with an equally obvious level of wariness, and then looked to the two of them.

“There was a crash,” She said, frowning at them in worry. “Are you two alright? Ron, Harry dear?”

“Yeah, mum.” Ron said. He glanced at Harry, who shrugged, and nodded.

Liars, the both of them. But – at least, at least Ron isn’t going to mess with the stuff in here without a whole room of people again.

Not happening. 

* * *

 

The Locket got thrown out, and Ron frowned at the relief he felt, because it’s not quite his.

The mood-swings lessen, though. From then on out. Ron was _pretty_ sure the object wasn’t cursed to touch, because he didn’t really feel any different, but now it was gone, he wasn’t so sure it wasn’t cursed in general. The place felt lighter, somehow. 

Some people stopped having mood-swings all together. Others didn’t. The last few remaining that were still affected were Harry, Ron himself, Ginny, Hermione, Remus, and Sirius.

Hermione recovered next. Then Remus. Then Ron, then Sirius.

Ron found his sister staring at herself in one of the upper hallway mirrors, leaning on the side table.

“Ron,” She said, seeing him in the reflection. “Ginny,” He greeted.

Ginny looked pale. There were shadows under her eyes that proved she hadn’t been sleeping well. This house wasn’t good for her, either. Wasn’t good for any of them, really. Even if the house’s magic has drastically calmed down since the removal of the Locket.

They’d overheard Dumbledore talk about that in a meeting, actually. Apparently, he’d confiscated it. Whatever he’d done, the Locket wasn’t here any longer.

“I don’t feel like myself.” Ginny says, abrupt, surprising. She doesn’t really talk about things like this with anyone, let alone her emotionally-unaware youngest older brother.

Ron doesn’t say anything. That appears to be what she wanted, because Ginny carries on.

“There was something _here.”_ Ginny said. “Something that felt familiar.”

“The Locket,” Ron said. It had felt familiar to Harry, too, and that can’t be a co-incidence.

“I heard him.” She said, quietly, and she sounded scared. Nothing like the sister he’d grown used to since her ordeal in her first year, nothing like the one he’d known before that whole horrible situation.

“Tom.” She added. Not Riddle, not Voldemort, even, though Ron mentally shivers at even thinking the name.

But Tom. Just Tom.

“Like he was here, still,” She gestured. “In my head. The house-” She shook her head. “I think it was trying to _help._ In it’s way.”

Trying to block out the noise. Ron hadn’t noticed at the time, but looking back – the house’s magic had burrowed so thoroughly into his self that the Locket had had no way in.

“It didn’t really help much,” Ron said, and Ginny snorted.

“Not even a little,” She agreed. “I nearly – Merlin, I nearly _hexed Mum.”_

“I hexed Percy,” Ron said, uncomfortable. Percy wasn’t around much, and Ron knew it was only time. Time before he left. Ron hadn’t – he’d noticed his brother reading the Prophet and _agreeing,_ he’d noticed his insane work-hours.

Ron had noticed. Ron’s pretty sure everyone else has, too.

“Percy’s a git, though,” Ginny said.

“I cut his arm open,” Ron said. “Diffindo right down it. Vertically.”

“Oh.” Ginny said. Ron swallowed, uncomfortable.

“Nobody’s been right since we got here,” Ron said. “Harry more than most, though.”

“Me too.” Ginny said. “I’m just better at hiding it.”

She looked at him, through the mirror, and Ron didn’t break eye contact. “Not really,” Ron said. “I mean, I could tell.”

She looked a little relieved at that, and Ron ignored the sting because he knows he’s not that observant. If he can tell, so can everyone else.

“He was never really gone.” Ginny said. “Tom. A little voice in the back of my head, you know? Like people have. Voicing fears and shit.” She frowned at herself in the mirror. “Those little thoughts you might have on occasion which you’re immediately disgusted by.”

Ron nodded. He kind of had that too, except they weren’t young Dark Lords in the making. Harry and Hermione, really, sometimes his Mum, sometimes someone else. People who matter to him. People whose perceptions of him he cares about. People he doesn’t want to let down.

“But then he was _back.”_ Ginny said. “Not as clever. More desperate. But he was there and I thought – I might –”

“You didn’t, though.” Ron said. “You _nearly_ hexed Mum. You didn’t, though. You _nearly_ punched Fred. You didn’t, though.”

That’s important, he figured. That she didn’t. The she held herself back, despite the voice and the magic and the insidious nature of it all, of Tom Riddle, of the dark, creeping cold.

“Yeah.” Ginny said, straightened up. “I didn’t.”

But I _did,_ Ron thought, didn’t say. This – this is about Ginny. She’s gone through far more shit than he has.

“Thanks,” Ginny said, as she passed him by on her way back downstairs. She seems a little lighter, and if Ron felt a little heavier as he stared at himself in the mirror, well, whatever. Maybe it’s cursed, like everything else in this Morgana-be-damned house.

* * *

 


	2. A War Brews. (Trouble Is Both On It's Way, And Already Here.)

Ron walked downstairs a little while later, that creeping cold settling in his hollow spine like it always did, these days. It seemed to have found itself a home, there, and while Ron’s emotions burned brighter, angrier, in response to the intrusion, Ron couldn’t say he minds anymore.

If it stops things like that Locket from getting in his head, things that are now apparent as parts of Tom Riddle, somehow, then... well, better the Morgana you know than the Mordred you don’t.

“Pass the butter, would you?” Ginny said, as he entered, and Hermione does just that. His sister buttered her bread and slapped some ham into it, put on the top slice of bread and ate the sandwich quickly.

Harry’s sat in the corner, again.

Ron went over to Hermione because that’s where the food was and made himself his own crappy sandwich.

“You going to eat?” Ron asked Harry, easily, light in tone, and Harry shrugged, stood, and walked over to the kitchenette. Harry could cook, so Ron returned his attention to his bread.

He’d never been very good at this. He was worse at the spell you could use instead, too, so Ron just did it the knife-and-butter way.

“Oh, honestly,” Hermione muttered, then said the spell and his bread was done. She looked tired, dark circles under her eyes she didn’t bother to hide. Her hair was a mess – more so than usual – and she was wearing the same jumper she’d worn yesterday. Same jeans, too, now that Ron looks.

“Sleep at all last night?” Ron asked, tone try, but really, he’s concerned. It probably showed on his face. Whatever. “Or d’you stay up all night reading in the Library again?”

Something crossed over Hermione’s face that he didn’t have time to read before she shrugged and smiled slightly. “You know me,” She said, “I read all night.”

“Of course,” Ron sighed, falsely, but also kind of not, because people needed sleep, and it was obvious how much she lacked it.

Not that Ron could talk. He hadn’t been sleeping much lately, either. The creeping cold settled in his bones made it difficult.

“I read about types of magic,” Hermione said, ever practical. “Some people are more susceptible than others to different types. Light witches and wizards are rather susceptible to Dark magic, and vice versa, whereas Grey ones aren’t really susceptible at all. And people who’ve been affected by certain types of magic for extended periods of time are generally more susceptible, rather than less, though you get people with stubborn magic who refuse that on principle,” Hermione explained. Ron knew that mostly because it was common knowledge, but he also knew that she had a distinct disadvantage in that area, having not grown up among all this.

“Oh really?” Harry said, from his place making an omelette at the stove. “Fascinating.” He added, tone dripping with sarcasm.

Hermione pursed her lips. “Considering where we’re staying,” She said, shortly, “And the effect it’s had on everyone, I figured it best to be well informed.”

“How do you know?” Ron asked, and this was something that wasn’t common knowledge, so Hermione was the perfect person to ask, really. “Which ‘type’ you are?”

“It depends on the spells you use,” Hermione said. “Most Hogwarts students are Grey because the magic we’re taught doesn’t use emotion to make it work. Some are Light, because of the spells they use; like the Patronus Charm, for example. Some are dark for the same reasons, though that isn’t sanctioned, because most Dark spells are, well,” She frowned. “ _Dark._

“Plus,” She added, “The accidental magic you did as a child is a factor. The emotions that fuel it give you your leaning; dark or light, but you’re still Grey, in theory. There’s no real way to test it, in truth. A child’s magic is too unstable for that.”

“Okay,” Harry said. “Why did you bother, though? I mean, it’s obvious this place is screwing with us.” 

“This place may be ‘screwing with us’,” Hermione said, “But it isn’t harming our _souls_ like that Locket was doing.”

“Souls?” Ron asked.

“The library hasn’t been cleared out,” Hermione said. “Not fully. And I’ve read up on enough detection spells to satisfy even Mad-Eye, so they let me help look through.”

Hermione paused and looked up from her notes. “I think it was some form of soul magic,” She said. “The darkest kind, perhaps. But the book I read didn’t name it; too scared. Which is… concerning, given the rest of the magic that book dealt with.”

“Hopefully not, then,” Ron said, voice tinged with worry he couldn’t hide, and Hermione gave him a sympathetic glance. “Hopefully not,” She agreed, as Harry plated his food and sat down at the end of the table. 

* * *

 

Ron had never really noticed how long summer was.

At the Burrow, he’d had stuff to distract himself with. But not here. He couldn’t fly, practice being keeper. Couldn’t hang out in his room, because it wasn’t his room and there was that portrait of the old, awful headmaster on the wall. Also, the spiders. _Nope._

All he had here was homework, a friend with PTSD, a friend who spent her days cooped up in the library or writing letters to _Krum,_ and occasionally talking to him, the person that was, y’know, actually _here._

Ugh. Whatever.

Point is – All he had were those three things. And cleaning, but most of that was done, and now it was only the really dangerous stuff left, so the ‘kids’ weren’t allowed to do any of it.

Ron’s not exactly complaining, but he’d trade not having to do any cleaning for not being treated like a useless waste of magic by the Order any day.

He might just be fifteen, but he’s done _some_ stuff. It’s even more ridiculous to leave out Harry or Ginny or Hermione, to be honest with you, because even though Harry’s likely been through what sort of classes as ‘the most’, Ginny’s been through _worse._ She might just be fourteen, younger than the rest of them, but she’s more capable than half of the adults in the damn order combined.

They all voice these opinions – their annoyance at being left out – so many times, it’s not even funny. Then there’s the argument Sirius and his Mum have, and while Ron’s glad his Mum cares about Harry, he is, it’s not really her place, not really.

Nobody really counts the Dursleys, so in truth, Harry doesn’t really have any guardians. If he wants Sirius to sort-of be one, then, well, that’s what he wants. Harry should get to choose something, honestly, but Ron doesn’t say anything. 

* * *

 

There’s a weapon. That’s all they know. It’s more than they’ve been told all summer, and it’s so vague it’s frustrating, so vague it’s practically worthless information, but that’s what they’ve got.

They try and brainstorm, the lot of them. Fred, George, Harry, Hermione, Ron, and Ginny. But they come up short. What could be so powerful that the order needs to protect it from Him at all costs? Ron has no clue.

Nobody else does, either, and that dampens their spirits quite heavily. If only they knew _more,_ maybe they could figure it out. Be of _some_ help, instead of just sitting ducks.

But they don’t. And the adults – specifically, his Mum – won’t let them.

So, they’ll just have to do this alone. What was it you say? Never tell a teenager not to do something. They’ll generally end up doing it.

It’s a surprise, and not exactly a welcome one when Hermione announces that she’ll be gone for the last two weeks.

“I need to spend time with my parents,” She said, staring down Alistair Moody in a way most people wouldn’t be capable of. “And I have another invitation to Bulgaria I want to use. Given what’s going on, I don’t know when we’ll get another chance like this.”

“Dear girl, of course, you can go,” Dumbledore said, quicker than Moody could react. Hermione smiled thinly and nodded, and that was that.

Hermione came up to their room, later, to say goodbye, see you at school, don’t forget to finish your homework, read something for me, _please,_ and eat all your meals, Harry - but Ron wasn’t... he was annoyed, yeah. Angry, too.

That creeping cold had settled in his bones by now, and it didn’t feel like it wanted to leave any time soon. It made him jittery, antsy, ready to fight or be fought. He squashed more spiders than he fled from, which wasn’t so much as a sign of him getting over his fear as one of his anger getting out of hand.

Ron, for once, couldn’t wait until summer was over. And he meant that _. Literally._

He couldn’t wait. Ron felt like he was about to explode every second of every day. Like his magic was one wrong move away from smashing all the windows and breaking everyone’s bones.

The creeping cold felt rather like a cat. Satisfied, content, like it was purring away in the back of his head, the vibrations causing his restlessness, his eagerness for a fight.

Ron… might have lied about being over the whole mood-swings thing. Harry still hasn’t recovered, either, but Ginny’s a lot better. Sirius has relapsed, though.

“I’ll see you on the train,” Hermione said, promised. Of course, she would, otherwise how would she get to Hogwarts?

Only Ron and Harry are stupid enough to try flying there.

“Alright,” Ron said, and it’s shorter, rougher than he meant. Hermione looked hurt, a little, so he patted her on the shoulder awkwardly and tried again. “Sure,” He said, and it’s a little lighter. “See you then.”

Hermione smiled, dimples and too-straight teeth, and Ron sort-of can’t help smiling back, at least a little.

If she’s happy, then he can be happy for her, Ron decided, at that moment.

Harry said his goodbye, too. Hermione hugs them both – Ron awkwardly pats her on the head and Harry looks on, amused, damn him – then leaves and Harry gets back into bed. Ron gets ready and drops into his own bed, lies on his back and stares at the ceiling.

He falls asleep a few minutes before dawn.

When Ron wakes, it’s almost noon. He can tell immediately that Harry had a nightmare last night and didn’t bother to clean the sheets, dry but still tinged with sweat, and messily half thrown off the bed.

Ron casts a quick scourgify on everything because his Mum does an inspection at random times and he doesn’t want another earful. The dust settles in after a few days, anyway, and Ron can’t be bothered to deal with _that_ again. It’s magic, maybe, because the stuff’s really hard to clean off.

He gets dressed and ready and goes downstairs. The place is really quite empty, now. The Twins are out, because they’re old enough to be Order members and they’re ‘on a mission’; Ron’s pretty sure they’ve just gone to visit Lee – while the other Order members usually don’t stick around long after or before meetings, though Tonks hangs around the second most after Remus, and even that’s not saying much since he’s rarely around anyway.

Ginny’s still here, obviously, but she’s out. Molly decided isolation wasn’t good for the soul, or some shit like that, because she took Ginny over to the Rookery – Luna’s house – and they’re still there. Or, rather, not here.

Probably getting some provisions, Ron figured. Maybe enjoying some time at the Burrow, sneakily, rudely.

Pretty much it was just the four of them since Ron’s Dad was at work. Harry, Sirius, Kreacher, Ron himself.

Oh, and Buckbeak. So, five then.

Was Buckbeak still here? Ron hasn’t checked. He isn’t really planning on it any time soon.

Harry had a knife now, and a mirror. A knife for locks or something, and a mirror for communication. He’d been a bit worried about luring Sirius out of hiding by using the latter, but Ron figured leaving Sirius here with no contact would be worse.

Harry agreed, wholeheartedly, and probably made himself promise he’d use it.

So, really, since Sirius wasn’t anywhere to be seen right now, Buckbeak might or might not be here, and Kreacher was, well, Kreacher, and was probably skulking about in the basement they’d found and had Bill visit to break the curses on with a few of the other order members.

To be fair, Ron was in the basement right now. But so was Harry, and honestly, this room was the most preserved in the house. Mostly because sheets had been covering everything and the sheer number of preservation charms and stasis charms everywhere was astounding, according to Bill.

Most of that had been cleared away – especially the stasis, they were dangerous to living beings caught in them – and the sheets were piled up in a corner, and it was actually a fairly decent sitting room.

Ron had found some firewhisky. He hadn’t told anyone about it yet, because there wasn’t anyone around to tell, and he had a distinct feeling that Sirius would only encourage that they drink it. And since Ron doesn’t have any clue on how to use detection spells, he’s not risking that it’s poisoned or cursed or something equally horrible.

“I’m actually bored,” Harry said, and he sounded mystified. “Being at the _Dursleys_ was less… nothing. I’ve done all my work, I’ve read my books, I’ve done everything, there’s nothing left to do.”

Ron’s general reaction to that was either to suggest quidditch or chess, but they couldn’t do the former and the latter had recently started getting him angry enough for the house’s magic, or the Locket’s magic, to take a little control, enough to get him to do something awful, or potentially dangerous.

So, really, he didn’t know what to say. The library was a no-go, partially because enjoying reading was something Ron thought of as an oxymoron, and also because neither of them knows enough detection spells.

“Right,” Ron said, sighing. “Well, I haven’t finished mine, so I should probably get on that.”

“We’ve got a week left,” Harry said. “You should definitely get on that.”

Ron nodded. “Here,” Harry said, leant over to the coffee table and grabbed some parchment. He cast _geminio_ on the rolls and tossed the long-lived temporary copies over to Ron. “If you wanna cross-reference. Hermione’s scribbled all over that one.”

Ron nodded, sighed; put-out. Harry laughed, and that was good, so sure. Ron gained an amused expression of his own as a reaction because in general, laughter was a kind of infectious thing.

Ron got some parchment of his own and started writing his HOM essay. 

* * *

 

Harry found the firewhisky the next day, of course.

“Never had this before,” Harry said. “Well, yeah,” Ron said. “It’s firewhisky. That’s not just your average butterbeer.”

“Which is also an alcoholic beverage,” Harry said. “I mean, look at how trashed Winky got on it.”

Ron shrugged one shoulder. He didn’t get how it worked, either, really.

Harry tossed it easily from hand to hand, suppressing a smile and a glint in his eyes.

‘Trouble finds me’. _Sure._

“It could be poisoned,” Harry said. “Or cursed.”

Nobody ever said two unattended teenagers made the best decisions. Especially bored ones, and ones that wanted to procrastinate homework.

“Boo,” Harry said, after coughing. Ron snorted. “Told you it was _fire_ whisky.”

“I didn’t expect to start _breathing fire,_ Ron,” Harry said, plainly.

Ron laughed. “Take it this way,” Ron said, “Think of things like that, when it comes to magical drinks, as _literal_.”

“I’ll be ready next time,” Harry groused, glared at the bottle. He smirked and handed it over.

“Your turn.”

Ron sighed. Was he bored enough?

Well, Harry didn’t seem much worse for wear. Maybe it was a bit strong, because of its age. Magic didn’t tend to age in a normal fashion, after all. And breathing fire because of some whisky was _definitely_ magic.

“Alright,” He said, and took a swig. It burned at the back of his throat, and for one, fleeting second, the creeping cold fled his system, hissing, like a startled, angry, terrified cat, and Ron felt it bristle, claw its way back in, but Ron didn’t care all that much, because he was here, in the house that magic belonged to. It’d always find its way back in.

But he could kick it out, for a time. No wonder Harry’s eyes were like that – Ron hadn’t realised how heavy he’d felt under the weight of that intruding dark force until it was gone.

How slimy it really was. How it coerced you into thinking it was _safe._

The gleam in Harry’s eyes was still bright when he took the bottle back. Ron felt it, the fire, in the back of his throat, and coughed, let it out.

Harry snorted.

“Shove off,” Ron said, but he was grinning, and the shove he sent Harry’s direction was a friendly one.

Harry laughed, properly. That was good. Two good things; the coldness gone for a moment, and genuine laughter.

This could work.

Harry blew out the fire easier this time, no longer taken by surprise, and he watched the flames dissipate in the dank basement air.

It was _nicer_ here than the rest of the house. The decoration was surely much better. But that didn’t mean it was _nice,_ that just meant it wasn’t _horribly unpleasant._

Ron took the bottle and had a swig from it. They went like that for a little while, tossing it back and forth, and Ron felt light, warm; the coldness gone from his mind, his bones.

They emptied the bottle pretty quick. Harry frowned at it, saddened by the clear glass. Ron vanished it without much thought, and neither really noticed he did it, because – well, drunk, for one, they were _very_ drunk, and for two, _very tired._

Why hadn’t he been sleeping again? Ron couldn’t remember, really. It was fuzzy, kind of like everything was fuzzy. Things were fuzzy like Harry’s eyes were a startling green; simple fact.

“You were very jeal’us,” Harry slurred. “Of ‘Mi’ne,”

“No,” Ron said. “Of ‘Rum,”

“Yeah,” Harry said. “That, s’rry,”

“Kinda,” Ron found himself saying. “M’by little o’ both,”

“Kinda,” Harry repeated. “I was jel’us. Of Cedric. Feels bad, really, ‘cause he’s _dead._ An’ all.”

Harry paused.

“Kinda Jel’us o’ Cho, too,” He mumbled. “But – yeah. He’s dead, an’ all.”

Ron hummed, leaning back on the couch. The coldness was gone, still, a pleasant warmth settled there instead.

“Prob’ly shu’ld hide the bottle,” Harry said, slurred, drunk and tired and a whole manner of other too complicated things for Ron to think about right now.

“Yeah,” Ron said, groaned, leaned forward and blinked, “Oh,” He said, stupidly, “It’s gone.”

“Gud,” Harry said, stumbled into standing. “Also late,” Harry said, casting an absent-minded _tempus._ “Woah, _very_ late,”

And it was. Where had the time gone?

Ron thinks he might have passed out at some point. Huh.

“Alright,” Harry muttered, “Well, C'mon, then,” And grabbed Ron’s arm. They sort of half-fell half stumbled out of the room because really, that was way too much firewhisky but whatever; be fifteen, make mistakes, learn.

Except – well, it didn’t much feel like a mistake. Harry seemed happy enough, Ron didn’t feel slimy and gross magic creeping into his very soul or burrowing into the back of his head and carving a space for itself there. Logically he knew it was still there, because they were still _here,_ in this house, but who cares. He certainly felt _much_ better, if a little foggy, fuzzy, tired.

“We should do sm’thin’ stupid,” Harry said. “I dun’ kno’ what, tho’,”

“Tired,” Ron said. “Maybe rest. Nap. Nap sounds good.”

“Yeah,” Harry sighed out. “Yeah, a nap sounds good. Haven’t slept. Dreams. Corridor. Torture. Voldy in my head, y’know nightmares. Some of it seems real, tho’.”

“Cold,” Ron found himself saying. “Magic. Cold magic, in my head, y’know, back of my brain, burrowing there, like the Locket, but different, this house, y’know, it’s Dark, and it’s strong, and it’s weird, and it’s in my head,” Ron found himself laughing at nothing. “Like a cat. Content, startled, angry, fearful. Simple. Safer than the Locket, but only in a Morgana versus Mordred way.”

“Emotions,” Harry said. He hissed something, parseltongue by accident, and Ron spied the snake painting opposite that caused that. Ron shivered, slightly, and sped up their pace, tripping a little over the stairs.

“Alright,” Harry said, as if he was continuing, or affirming, but Ron didn’t know what he’d said.

“Yeah,” Ron said anyway, and Harry grinned in his peripheral vision. Oh. Harry had lost his glasses at some point. Ron should – he should go get them for him. Harry’s got terrible eyesight for the youngest seeker in a century, really.

“Can’t see,” Harry said as if affirming Ron’s thoughts. “Sorry.”

“No pr’bl’m,” Ron muttered, and they stumbled into the room they shared.

“Right,” Harry said. “Bed.”

Harry dropped onto his bed, didn’t bother changing or getting under the covers. There were little snakes on the walls, the peeling paint still mostly there, and Harry was mumbling something in the snake language, and weirdly, oddly enough, it was kind of soothing.

Eh.

Ron dropped into his own bed, didn’t bother getting changed either but pulled his covers half-heartedly over himself, kicked off his shoes.

“Night,” He heard, not parseltongue and a little too loud.

“Night,” He said back, and it took him mere minutes to fall asleep.

* * *

 

When Ron woke up, he had the _worst_ headache. “Fuck,” He muttered, but even that was too loud. Ron heard Harry _literally_ hiss, not say something in Parseltongue and then a spell and the curtains were shut, which blocked out enough of the light that Ron felt safe opening his eyes.

Oh, right. He got drunk. _This_ was a hangover.

 _This_ was _awful._ Never again, he vowed – but the cold was back, in his bones, in his head, in his very _magic_ , seeping in and changing things, freezing the fire in his veins, and Ron knew his promise wasn’t going to last.

Harry, he could see - as Ron had turned over, away from the light assaulting his eyes - had burrowed under his blanket and pillow, a lump in the middle of the bed.

“My glasses,” He heard, muffled. “Where-?”

“Downstairs,” Ron remembered. Harry sounded less affected by his headache than Ron did, and that was frustrating, but whatever.

The creeping cold curled up in the place it had carved for itself, and Ron tensed, but relaxed at the same time, and he didn’t really know how to deal with that, so he left it alone.

“I need ‘em,” Harry said, muffled. “I kno’ where the headache stuff is.”

Ron groaned, rolled into a seated position. He held onto his head and forced himself into standing.

“I’m going to need that before I can find your glasses.” Ron said.

“Can’t describe,” Harry said. “Pain too strong. Ugh.”

Maybe he was less put together than Ron. Huh.

“Glasses are in the basement room,” Ron said. “Easier to find.”

Harry sat up, dropping the pillow on the bed and swinging his legs around over the edge.

“Ow,” Harry said, plainly, as he rubbed at the side of his head, eyes closed. “I’m coming with.”

“Fine,” Ron said. “But you literally _can’t see.”_

“Then just,” Harry gestured, “I don’t know, I’ll hold your elbow or some shit, just, let’s go.”

Ron sighed, went over, and waited. Harry stood, and the guy could see enough to grab onto Ron’s elbow. “Right,” Ron said, a little uncomfortable with all this – leading a practically blind person meant having to remember all the obstacles and stuff, and the _stairs,_ great. Just - great.

“Right.” He repeated and started walking.

It was an unmitigated disaster right from the word go, really, but that was to be expected. They managed not to fall down the stairs, but they _did_ wake Walburga, and Sirius came running, and then they had to explain why Harry’s glasses weren’t on his face, y’know, where they should be, and Sirius just laughed because, well, it just so happened that he couldn’t find his Firewhisky last night and don’t you know, but Lily always lost her wand when she was drunk, figures Harry would end up getting that characteristic.

Being compared to his mother for more than her eyes for once appeared to be rather startling, to Harry. Sirius frowned, saddened, and led them both down into the sitting room.

“I’ll say what I’m supposed to,” Sirius said, “What you did was very stupid. But, truthfully, every single adult out there is a complete hypocrite. We all did it.” He picked up Harry’s glasses and handed them over to him, and Harry immediately stepped away, put them, on, and scowled at nothing for a second, before nodding.

Ron dropped into one of the chairs. Harry dropped into the one opposite.

“I’m not going to say you shouldn’t,” Sirius said, “Even though that’s true. Because, well, I’m pretty certain that people your age tend to ignore that sort of thing. Merlin knows I did.”

Harry cracked a smile at that.

Sirius dropped into another chair and sighed. “The medicine should be in there,” He said, gesturing to a back cabinet. Harry immediately got up and went over, grabbed enough for himself and drank the potion down greedily, ignoring the taste quite obviously because, well, the relief would be worth it.

Ron copied pretty soon after, and then the three of them were kind of just there.

“So how have you two been holding up, then?” Sirius asked, cheerful enough and Ron shrugged.

“Alright,” Harry said. He grinned lightly. “Ron should do his homework, but, y’know, that’s his choice.”

Ron made a noise of protest and sighed then nodded, shrugging. “Should.” He said. “Will. Tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow will never come,” Sirius said, wisely. “And you don’t want Minnie giving you detention on the first day.”

Ron snorted at the nickname, but he agreed.

“How far have you got?” Sirius asked, leaned forward. “The both of you?”

“I’ve done my HOM essay.” Harry said. “And the thing for Snape, and the Transfiguration essay. Done my Herbology and Charms and we didn’t get set any DADA, but I did some reading.”

“Divination?” Ron asked, lips twitching. “Predicted my own death no less than twenty times,” Harry said, faux proudly, and they both laughed.

Sirius was smiling, something fond and nostalgic in his gaze. Like he was thinking of something else, something kinder. From a happier time, from his perspective.

“So anyway,” Ron said, “COMC?”

“Yeah,” Harry nodded. “That too.”

“I guess you have a lot of time at the Dursleys,” Ron said, and his sullen tone matched Harry’s expression. “Yeah.” He said. “That would be the case.”

“Well,” Sirius said, “I guess you might want some help to get all that done, since we’ve only got a week before you lot are off for Hogwarts again.” He said, and the man sounded vaguely wistful about leaving this house. Ron understood; he’d only been here for a few months, but leaving already felt like the most important, looked-forward to event of his _life._ And Sirius, this thirty-something man, he’d lived here. _Lived here._

That’s gotta mess with your head, at least a bit. And to be forced back, cooped up…

“Yeah,” Harry said. “Yeah, that’d be great. Hermione’s not here to pick up on our mistakes and she’s also not here to explain her own notes,” Harry gestured to his HOM essay, the one that was still on the table from last night. “See the red? That’s her.”

Sirius whistled. “Woah.” He said. “Almost as anal about all that as Moony.”

Ron and Harry shared amused glances. He really had _no_ idea.

“More, I would say.” Harry glanced up, as did Ron and Sirius. Remus was here. The amount of Order members showing up had slowed since about the middle of summer, everyone getting tasks and things they needed to do.

“Moony!” Sirius said, cheerfully. “C’mon in. The boys here could use some help and you were always better at History of Magic than I was.”

“That’s because you fell asleep in every lesson, Sirius,” Remus said, amused, but he walked over all the same. “Harry, Ron,” He greeted. “Good to see you well.”

Sirius snorted. Remus raised an eyebrow but shrugged and left it alone.

“Professor,” Harry grinned, nodded, and Ron greeted the man similarly.

“Call me Remus,” He said, amused again. “I’m not your teacher any longer.”

“You were the best one, though.” Harry said.

“Trying to kill my students isn’t what I’d call the best course of action,” Remus said, self-deprecating. “That wasn’t your fault, though.” Ron said. “And It doesn’t stop you from being the best teacher we’ve had.”

Mad-Eye-Crouch-Junior _was_ good, admittedly, but, well… sadistic. And very, _very_ focused on a specific section of the curriculum. So, he was good, but not as good as Professor Lupin had been.

“See?” Sirius grinned. “Three against one, Remus. We win, you’re wrong.”

Remus smiled slightly, sat down in one of the chairs. “So, it seems,” He said.

“So,” Remus added, changing the topic. “Where are you stuck, exactly?”

* * *

 

Harry had gotten all his school gear by owl order. They’d gone to the burrow to receive it, so as not to draw attention to Grimmauld Place. After all, it was a Black’s house, so feasibly, most any Black family member could get in if they tried hard enough, and there were plenty of those on the other side of things.

It was only really safe because of the Fidelius charm blocking those who weren’t in on the Secret from access. And as the Potters had proved, that was only until the Keeper was compromised.

So, they were at the burrow. Three days left, and then they’d be back at Hogwarts. They were staying here for the day, the whole day, and it was so _good_ to be out of that house, to be able to go outside and do shit he usually wasn’t a fan of – feeding the chickens and tossing the gnomes and weeding the vegetables.

He couldn’t use magic here, but really, who gave a shit when he could go into the orchard, go down the back path and through a little wooded section into the quidditch clearing.

He could fly again, something he did a lot in the summer, and hadn’t really realised exactly how much he missed it.

He was trying out this year. Not for keeper, that would be stupid, Oliver’s the best keeper they’ve got, but if a position came up he’d try his fucking best to get it, because he likes flying, he does, and he decent at the posts, he just needs more practice in each of them.

He’s best at Keeper, though. But that position would be open next year; Ron could wait.

Harry had come out here, too. He looked a lot happier, out here, on the makeshift quidditch field, than he looked even when drunk the other night.

It was a good sight. Harry had his moments, lately, when he was angry, but more often, he was just… tired.

PTSD, Ron remembered. PTSD. And, from a letter Hermione hastily wrote to him three days into her stay at _Krum’s,_ again, possible lead poisoning from his decade sleeping in the Dursley’s staircase cupboard.

She was looking for things that could be treated, Ron knew. Harry probably wouldn’t like that, but at least if Ron and Hermione had an idea of what might be wrong, they can handle this better than going in blind.

Ron didn’t show Harry that letter, regardless.

“Want to throw the quaffle around?” Harry asked, staring up at the sky.

“Sure,” Ron said, and went to go get it, and two brooms. Harry’s was still in his case back at Grimmauld Place, as was Ron’s, so Ron grabbed Bill and Charlie’s old brooms and handed Charlie’s to Harry.

You used different brooms depending on your flying abilities and the techniques you use. Bill was a chaser, so his broom would work for Ron in this situation, and Harry was a seeker, so Charlie’s old broom would work for him in general, which should make up for the fact that he doesn’t actually know much about how to play chaser.

“Alright,” Ron said, tossed Harry the ball and mounted Bill’s old broomstick. “Let’s go, then.”

Harry grinned, a challenge. At least there was life in his eyes today. That was something, and it didn’t require alcohol to get there, so – plus side – no hangover. 

* * *

 

They were back at Grimmauld Place, and Ron could feel the slimy magic of it crawling back under his skin, stretching out and filling in the cracks and crevices and hollow little holes it had made for itself.

Ron shivered as they passed through the door, and Harry’s expression soured so quickly Ron almost got whiplash.

“Forgot about that,” Harry said, thickly, absently rubbing at his scar.

“Yeah.” Ron said. He hadn’t forgotten, but he understood how Harry could have.

He doubted Harry had even been aware about it until the Locket, and even then, not consciously, until the firewhisky burnt it out of his system for a sweet, blissful moment.

“Alright,” Harry sighed. Subdued. This was how the magic affected him. Ron was very angry all of a sudden, like the magic of the Locket was back and playing it’s malicious, malevolent tricks again.

Just. Something felt. Similar.

Ron licked his lips in nervousness and frowned. He got what Harry and Ginny were on about, now.

Something. Felt.

_Familiar._

“Ron?” Harry asked, snapped his fingers in front of his eyes and Ron blinked, stepped back, massaged his temples with one hand, alternating.

“You okay?” Harry asked.

“Yeah.” Ron said. “Yeah. I just. Something felt – weird. Familiar.”

Harry frowned, deep, concerned.

“It’s fine.” Ron said, and it was. Really. “It’s gone now.”

Not really. Ron hadn’t noticed it before, but it was obvious, now.

Something felt – like the Locket. Familiar.

Something about _Harry._

* * *

 

Ron felt a bit stupid about sending a letter to Dumbledore considering he’d be at Hogwarts in less than a day’s time and so could very well ask him then and there, but still.

He couldn’t outright say it, of course. But he’d had a look at the library, and found a couple ‘encryption’ spells, and Ron hoped Dumbledore would check the parchment for something like that. Otherwise, this would seem very, very odd.

_Headmaster Dumbledore,_

_Can I ask you something?_

_Ron._

* * *

 

_Can I ask you something?_

Dumbledore frowned at the parchment. He tapped it with his wand, absentmindedly. He supposed the boy could simply be asking for his office password so he could ask in person, but that didn’t seem like something the boy would do.

No. Ron tended to surprise people, from what Dumbledore had gathered.

Frowning still, on a whim, he cast a diagnostic charm.

It pinged back with about twelve different warnings, and Dumbledore laughed.

Then, well. He registered what the letter was saying, and his mood sobered. He was of course, no less impressed – but what the boy had figured out wasn't just some fairly difficult magic. Not that the boy would _know_ it was fairly difficult, which is likely how he managed it in the first place.

Regardless… it was something far more sinister than that.

_Headmaster Dumbledore,_

_There’s something off about Harry, isn’t there?_

_That Locket. The one you confiscated. We probably should have said something, I guess, but it’s a bit late now. Anyway, well, we were the ones that found it._

_I could tell it was something, but it didn’t feel cursed. That’s – I mean, that’s why I was surprised when the mood-swings mostly stopped. Mostly._

_That’s the thing. Mostly. I didn’t really think about it, at first. The House, Grimmauld, it’s got some Dark stuff. Magic. Creeping cold that you can feel, in your head, and, well, I guess, in your soul, a little, too._

_It covered the, uh – subtler stuff. Like the Locket. In a weird way, it was almost trying to protect, but it was – it wasn’t strong enough, I guess. Mordred or Morgana; evil you know or evil you don’t. We all kind of went with the latter - the Locket - and nobody said anything._

_Ginny, Me, Hermione, Harry, and Sirius were the most affected, followed by Remus._

_Hermione got over it first. Ginny got over it last._

_Harry’s not over it. I’m not over it._

_I’m – asking. Kind of. I’m kind of asking, well, if the Locket latched on. Like the Diary did with Ginny._

_They’re the same, aren’t they? Bits of Riddle. Ginny still calls him Tom, you know. So does Harry. They actually got to know him a bit, trust him a little. I never met him, but I knew about the diary, that it talked back._

_Books don’t do that. Not even magic ones._

_But the Diary stopped doing it’s – soul thing. After it was destroyed. With that basilisk fang. From the dead basilisk in the basement. Chamber. Thing._

_Harry – this is weird to write. But Harry feels kinda like the Locket did. If that makes any sense. And Hermione got here two weeks in, about the same time Harry did just a day or two earlier, and then the locket was gone three weeks after that, nearly a month, but that was enough, wasn’t it? Over a month for the rest of us. And, I reckon, that long was enough – those three weeks – for the Locket to latch onto Harry._

_Hermione got over it first because she was around it least. Around Harry least._

_Sirius took longer, because of how long he’s stayed in this house, I figure. And the dementors. He died, you know, I guess, in the Original Timeline, Hermione talks about it a lot. The 'time-travel paradox.' There had to have been one, right? Some.. somewhen where Harry and Hermione didn’t go back, where Harry didn’t save himself and Sirius from the dementors._

_I don’t know. But I figure that might mean something._

_Anyway – Professor Lupin’s a werewolf. I mean, I guess, that probably makes him a little more... susceptible._

_And Ginny. Well. She’d already been latched onto before. Most of her soul eaten away. And it was Tom, still. The Locket. Not – **Voldemort,** not yet. _

_She said so. And, well, I trust her judgement. She heard him, too, not just the – ‘psychological leftovers’ but, well, **him.** Tom Riddle. _

_Anyway. Harry’s still affected. And I can feel it, too, that familiar thing. That’s – I mean, this sounds bonkers, but that’s His soul, right?_

_Tom Riddle’s soul._

_I don’t really know what I’m saying here. I mean, I don’t really understand what I’m feeling. Magic, I guess._

_I guess what I’m saying. I mean._

_Harry. He’s not Riddle, but he’s got – he’s got something, right. Something of his soul._

_I could be wrong. But – it’s just so **familiar.**_

**Ron.**

Dumbledore sighed, rubbed at his brow, the spot between his eyebrows and above the bridge of his nose.

He was a smart boy. People didn’t really think that when they looked at him, but Dumbledore knew his student’s grades, their achievements that lay outside of academics. 

Played chess against McGonagall’s set, enchanted to find a way to subdue the player, _when he was eleven,_ and won.

And yet, it appears he’d still underestimated the second youngest Weasley child.

Though – in all honesty – he’s feeling surer about his decision to make him a prefect than he had at the beginning of summer, and truthfully, a little guilty that he’d been thinking more of why it couldn’t be Harry than why it could be anyone else. 

* * *

 

After two nights back at Hogwarts, back at the familiar school of magic that was familiar in a way that wasn’t sinister, that didn’t send shivers down his spine, and Ron felt more like himself.

He still had yet to play chess, though. He missed it, but Ron didn’t want to hurt anyone again. Since this time, it wouldn’t be a traitorous git, and Ron would likely be lambasted as much as Harry was in the papers by the rest of the student body.

Plus, he was a _prefect._ He couldn’t exactly go around cursing people, since that’s not really the best example. Still, being able to take points off Malfoy’s lot did put him in a good mood.

Malfoy was not a prefect. Instead, it was some equally obnoxious dark-skinned Italian boy called Blaise Zabini, and the female prefect was none other than… Tracey Davis. Who he’d never once heard of in all his years swapping angry and (or) snide remarks across the corridors.

Hermione was the female prefect of Gryffindor. Really, Ron figured what with there being only three girls in their year, there wasn’t much choice, and besides, Lavender and Parvati talked more about celebrities than about schoolwork, and Lavender regularly turned her’s in late, though to be fair she did get good marks when that wasn’t the case.

For Hufflepuff, it was – unfortunately – MacMillan, though thank Merlin it wasn’t Smith. Susan was the female one, and that was alright. She was Madame Bones’ niece, and his Dad always talked about her being the most fair-headed (in the sense that she was always fair about things) of the lot at the DMLE.

For Ravenclaw, it was one person he'd had no idea existed before today; Terrance Boot, and _oh great..._  Padma Patil.

“Weasley,” She greeted, with vague disdain. “Yep,” He said, couldn’t help grimacing, and Hermione rolled her eyes and sat down.

“Figures you’d be prefect, Granger, what with competition like Brown,” Boot says. “But never guessed it’d be Weasley.” He looked vaguely impressed. “Nice one.”

Ron shrugged.

“Well,” Zabini drawled, with that amalgamation of an accent he had, “I suppose we should get down to business?”

“How Snape ever let _you_ be prefect, Zabini, I’ll never know,” Davis said, waspishly. “Same for you, dear,” He drawled back. “Given… well.” He stopped, smirking, and she scowled at him.

“Heads of Houses don’t _choose,”_ Hermione said, as if the thought was ridiculous. “The Headmaster does, along with the other teachers.”

“But half of us don’t even _have_ the other teachers,” Susan pointed out. Good point, that, really. “I mean, professor Vector teaches arithmancy. Half of the people sitting in this very booth have never even met her.”

Ron shrugged. She really did have a point.

“And Trelawney?” Boot added. “ _Her?_ She’s trusted over Sprout to choose someone to be a prefect?”

Padma pursed her lips and scowled at Boot, as, Hermione nodded, reluctantly agreeing.

“Well, there’s no point talking about it now,” Ron said. “We’ve been chosen, and that’s that.”

“True,” MacMillan said. “Very true.”

“So,” Padma said, clapping her hands together. “We need to schedule patrols and the like. And decide amongst ourselves how many points should be taken off from people for certain actions, so as to avoid favouritism.”

She glowered at Ron, Hermione, Zabini, Davis, and Boot each in turn. Ron glowered right back, really, because she had no right to judge him off of one shitty dance when he’d worn shitty clothes and had a shit time.

And he wasn’t about to be lumped in with the Purist, anyway.

Thing is – at least he wasn’t Malfoy. That was a blessing in disguise, really. In this case, Ron prefers the Mordred he doesn’t know over the Morgana he does.

Arguably, Morgana is worse, anyway.

“Alright,” Hermione nodded. “Everyone have something to write on?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Boot said. “Make one copy and use a protean charm. Simple.”

“ _Not_ simple,” Davis groused. “Not even remotely.”

“No, it really is,” Hermione said, excitedly. “We can have a few main non-protean charmed copies, of course, just in case, but we can have one that is, so we can communicate through it, remind each other about patrols, easily ask someone to take over if we’re sick or overworked with OWL prep and need a night off.”

Ron could see the use. The others could too, albeit begrudgingly for some _certain_ people (person, really), and so it was decided.

“Me, Boot, Davis and Bones will write them up, then.” Hermione decided. “I figure have the other half go around the train, you know, make sure people know.”

“Why not.” Padma said. “We should pair up, though.” She eyed Zabini with distaste, then eyed Ron and MacMillan with slightly less, albeit an equal amount for the both of them. “I’ll go with Weasley,” She said, begrudgingly. “Zabini and Weasley going together is a disaster in the making, so let’s mitigate that.”

Hermione nodded quite rapidly in agreement. Ron scowled at Zabini, who smirked back, until Davis slapped him, hard, on the arm.

“Don’t mind him,” She snapped. “You,” She pointed at MacMillan, who suddenly looked very pale, “Unfortunately, you’re stuck with Zabini. Luckily for you, he doesn’t hate Half-Bloods nearly as much as Weasleys.”

“Don’t be so rude, Davis,” Zabini said. “I hate them equally. No need to sugar coat it.”

“Fine,” She snapped. “You’re a bigoted bastard, but I’m glad you aren’t Malfoy, so we’ll just have to deal with you, and you’ll just have to deal with the fact that we won’t, we will _not **tolerate your shit**. _ Get it?”

“Of course,” Zabini said. “I wouldn’t dream of any less.”

“Fuck you,” Davis said, tired-sounding. “You two, get out of here, do the back compartments, with the older years. Zabini will be less tempted to hex seventh year muggleborns than first year ones. If he does, y’know, take points, and we can get his status revoked,” She looked a little gleeful at that thought. “So? Get to it.”

The two left the compartment, and Padma stood, brushed off non-existent stuff from her robes. “Come on, Weasley.” She said and sniffed at him. “At least _this time,_ you look presentable.”

Ron clenched one hand into a fist, but this was Bill’s robe from his brother's sixth year. It was a little too long on the arms and legs, but it fit his build better than his fifth-year ones did. You couldn’t see his fist, is the point, and he was grateful for that as he nodded, short, and followed Padma out of the compartment.

They find Harry near the back of the front, with a few fourth years and Neville.

“Hey,” Harry greeted when he saw them, charmed dark glasses reflecting the sunlight from outside.

Oh good. He’d figured out that spell.

He’d been working on it all summer, just as a side thing. Apparently, his dad had used it instead of just buying some sunglasses, because it worked, and why not.

“Sunglasses inside, Potter?” Padma asked, amused, and Harry shrugged. “Figuring out how the spell works, how long it lasts.”

She nodded at that and glanced at the others.

“Luna,” Ron greeted. He hadn’t seen her in years, honestly, but he still remembered the girl. She was a bit odd, sure, but not bad.

“Ronald,” She smiled. “The nargles appear to have cleared around you some, according to Ginny.”

“Right,” Ron acknowledged. A bit barmy, but well meaning.

Padma pursed her lips at the blonde, a look in her eyes Ron rather didn’t like. Ginny didn’t seem to like it, either, and neither did Harry.

“Luna.” Padma said, curt.

“Hello, Padma Patil,” Luna said, airy, but warm. “Did the nargles ever return your scarf?”

“Yes.” Padma said, shortly. “ _I_ found it, under my bed. Where I thought it was.”

“Oh good,” Luna smiled. Her magazine, _The Quibbler,_ was upside down in her hands, Ron noticed. Padma’s eyes seemed drawn to it, a brief look of revulsion appearing on her face before it was gone.

Luna didn’t seem to notice. If she did, you really couldn’t tell.

“Well, we aren’t doing anything _untoward,”_ Ginny said, tone verging on dangerous.

Ron wondered if she could feel that familiar thing, that bit of Tom Riddle that Harry had but wasn’t Harry himself.

“So, I figure there’s nothing you need to stay for?” She said, all her words directed at Padma.

“Have a good patrol, Ron,” Harry said, cheerful, but there was a slight edge there, too.

“Sure, mate. See you, Ginny.” He said, stepped back and closed the compartment door firmly.

“So,” Ron said, after casting a quick _Silencio._ He’d gotten rather good at that spell, after last year, and during the school years before that regardless, when he got nightmares about the Acromantulas, the chess game, finding Ginny dead in the chamber, her small skeleton lying there as the centuries passed by, eventually crumbling to dust. Harry was there too, sometimes, and Hermione, because all of them could have so easily died that year.

“What’ve you got against Luna? She’s a bit batty, sure, but you seem to hate her. A lot.”

Ron would know. He’d felt a lot of undeserved hate this summer, thanks to the house and the Locket, as well as over the years, in part due to the Weasley Temper (unofficial, but well known) and he could recognise it on the girl’s face.

“She’s not batty.” Padma snapped. “She’s – I don’t understand how she’s a Ravenclaw. She’s _odd._ And yes, I don’t like her. And yes, most people in our houses call her Loony Lovegood, you must have heard that. But I do not and would not partake in that.”

“But you won’t stop it, either, will you?” Ron said. “You’ll just let it happen. Ignore it. It’s all in jest. Teasing. Not bullying. Right?”

“And you care?” Padma asked. “I remember you being rather cruel to Hermione, first year. And you were ever so quick to turn on your _best mate_ last year, though I suppose if someone was someone’s _most important person_ they’d change their mood right quick, unless they were truly awful.”

“She’s Ginny’s friend,” Ron said, ignoring the second part of her tirade. The whole thing, actually. “The Rookery isn’t far from the Burrow, Padma.”

“So, you grew up near each other?” She said. “And? You weren’t friends. You don’t owe her anything.”

“Except just – y’know, not being a prat.” Ron said. “You’re being pretty prat-ish, you know that, yeah?”

She scowled at him. The girl was pretty, there was no denying that, but this was an ugly kind of expression. Denial.

“I’m not.” She said, certain. The girl turned around and practically flounced down the corridor, back the way they came. Ron sighed, and followed, breaking the spell.

* * *

 

“So, how’d it go?” Hermione smiled at them. It was strained around the edges; Zabini and MacMillan were back, but Zabini was nursing a bruise and MacMillan looked self-satisfied, and Davis was furiously whispering to Zabini in what Ron assumed to be Italian.

They’d missed something.

“Not the best,” Ron said, before Padma could. “Apparently Padma here’s a bit of a bystander.”

“How so?” Boot asked, leaning forward. “Luna.” Ron said. “Luna Lovegood.”

“Ah.” Boot leant back. “I see.”

“It’s not _my fault_ she makes herself a target,” Padma said, bluntly, curtly, as she sat back down. “If she’d just read her books the right way up and stop talking about creatures that don’t exist, this wouldn’t be a problem she has to face.”

“You know what happened, Padma,” Ron said. “You can’t exactly blame her for being a bit off in the head.”

“Ron,” Hermione said, firmly. “What?” He asked.

“That’s-” She sighed. “That’s not how you phrase it.”

“Phrase what?” He asked. “She’s a bit odd. That’s obvious. But she’s not _Loony Lovegood._ Like they call her,” He pointed at the Ravenclaws. Boot winced.

“I didn’t know,” Boot said, defending. “I didn’t know her name was Luna. Nobody ever called her it.”

“And you call her Luna _now,_ right?” Susan said, dangerous, and Boot nodded. “Obviously,” He said. “I apologised, even, though she didn’t seem to know what for.” He got a peculiar look on his face – confused, maybe. Ron didn’t know him well enough to know.

“Likely because she was isolated for her childhood, lost her mother in an explosion she bore witness to, lost her father to his fantasies, and has no friends.” Davis said, blunt. “But who knows…” She added, sarcastic.

“Tracey,” Susan sighed. “What?” Tracey said. “It’s true.”

“Ginny’s her friend.” Ron said, almost defensively. “Well, I’ve heard her call her Loony,” Susan said. “So... you might wanna rethink that.”

“Well.” Hermione frowned at all of them. “I suppose this brings us into what we should talk about next; we can and will and _should_ take points and give detentions to other prefects.”

They blinked at her.

“What?” Boot said.

“If we catch a prefect doing something bad, or against the rules, or what have you,” Hermione said, eying Zabini, “We can take points and give detentions. But it’s _double_ the points we take and detentions we give the first time, _quadruple_ the second, and then a simple _take them to their head of house and Dumbledore_ on the third.” She frowned at all of them, again.

“Makes sense,” Ron said. “I’m in.”

“Of course, _you_ are,” Davis muttered. “But yeah, I’m in too.”

Reluctant agreement from two others and genuine agreement from the rest – reluctant from MacMillan and Zabini, who were eying each other rather dangerously – and that was that.

“Well, meeting adjourned,” Hermione said. “We should meet up about a week in, after everyone’s settled back into the scheme of things. Just to go over everything.”

“Alright,” Ron said. “Where?”

“Just the library.” Hermione said. “We can’t get too heated in there, it should force civil conversation.”

They nodded, some reluctantly, but that was that, in the end.

They; him and Hermione, found their way to the cabin and compartment Ron had last seen Harry in. He was still there, as was Neville, Ginny and Luna. “Back again?” Harry asked, grinning. “Hey, Hermione.”

“Harry,” Hermione greeted, warmly. “How are you?”

Maybe not the best question. Harry shrugged, non-committal. His tone was light, but you couldn’t see his eyes behind the glasses. So, the charm hadn’t worn off yet.

“Alright,” He said, smiling, and Ron figures he’s never told a bolder lie. “You?”

“Alright,” She returned, equally, her smile a little more real, and she sits across from him, next to Neville, in between him and Ron’s sister.

Ron sits down, between Luna and Harry.

“So how was patrol?” Harry asked Hermione.  “I didn’t,” Hermione said. “Half of us stayed to discuss things like points and detentions – how many, what for – and the other half went out to patrol, give everyone a chance to understand who’s a prefect now and who isn’t.

“And Ron got saddled with Patil, again, then?” Ginny said. “Ginny,” Hermione sighed. “What?” Ginny asked. “She’s a right pain a lot of the time. Snobbish as they get. At least Parvati looks a little less down on us for being simple commoners with low-quality clothing and second-hand books.”

Hermione gained an _‘oh’_ kind of expression; quick and sudden realisation. “Don’t even,” Ginny said. “Let’s just move on.”

And so, they did.

Once they were back in the castle, and the welcome feast was underway, Ron noticed that Moody was in the DADA seat, but there was another person there too, an extra chair for a woman wearing far too much pink and had a distinct resemblance to a toad.

“That woman,” Harry had said, when the woman started talking. “She was at my hearing. Umbridge.”

“Umbitch, more like it,” Seamus said, under his breath, chuckling. Then, he seemed to remember he was talking to Harry, and backed off very, very quickly.

And to think. Just last year, Seamus had been complaining right alongside Dean about _Ron_ being fickle.

“You alright, Finnegan?” Ron asked. _Very_ pointedly using his last name. “Something wrong?”

“Don’t listen to everything the media tells you,” Ginny says from slightly further down the table, next to Neville and Colin. She’s cutting into some steak, and honestly, Ron’s a little terrified, so Seamus’ pale complexion is really rather warranted.

“Generally, it’s a load of rubbish.”

She cuts quite viciously into her steak; stabs it hard with the serrated knife, really, and Ron winces.

Seamus flinches, looks down at his food.

“It’s more than that these days,” Hermione scowls. “Outright libel, at best.”

“They’re just telling it how it is, Granger,” Seamus said.

“Just because your mum listens to their crap, Seamus, doesn’t mean you have to,” Harry said. “Or can’t you make a decision on your own without her input?”

Harry cuts into his own food, expression bland. Ron’s hope had been that the good mood from the last couple days would last, but no luck.

Not when people like Seamus, who’d shared their dorm room for the last five years, don’t believe you about things like this.

Dean looked uncomfortable, but he didn’t say anything. Once the feast was over he hurried Seamus out of there, and when Ron and Harry went up to bed, they weren’t in the dorm.

Harry shrugged and started to get dressed. Ron sighed, and turned around.

Harry raised an eyebrow at him, then caught sight of his prefect badge.

“… this is going to make things a little difficult for us, I imagine,” He said, amused, and Ron shrugged. “We’ll see,” He said and left. The two weren’t in the corridor, so he set of to find them.

He found them in an abandoned classroom down the hall a way, huddled together and having a whispered argument. Ron didn’t enter, not yet – these past five years had taught him a little something of stealth, if not much, so he simply listened in. He caught the occasional word, enough to know what they were arguing about.

Ron sighed, whispered _ten points from Gryffindor,_ and left them be.

Five points were the decided amount for an individual caught out of bed on the first offence. It was only fair, but Ron didn’t want to interrupt, not when what they were talking about was, well, Seamus’ attitude. If Dean got through to him, then, well, maybe Ron wouldn’t have to be assigning detention so soon. 

* * *

 

The school year passed by.

Umbridge got Harry to carve _I must not tell lies_ into the back of his hand with a _fucking_ blood quill, and Ron could do _nothing._

Honestly, that was the last straw. Dumbledore had never gotten back to him about what he’d asked, and really, Ron had had quite enough. This random ministry worker was here, for obviously suspicious reasons. She wasn’t teaching, she was quite literally _torturing_ , and Ron couldn’t stand idly by while his _best mate_ was being treated like _that._

He went to the gargoyle. He didn’t know the password, but he asked a nearby portrait, and with enough coaxing, the armoured woman eventually wandered on up to the headmaster’s office.

The gargoyle moved, and Ron stepped on the spiral, rising staircase. He was just about to knock when the Headmaster called _enter,_ and said “Hello, Ron. I assume this visit isn’t for idle pleasantries?” with a questioning but knowing tone. His eyes were twinkling behind his glasses as they nearly always were. Ron wondered if it was a charm.

“Umbridge has been torturing Harry,” Ron found himself saying. Ron’s not the hugest fan of betraying Harry’s trust like this, he’s not, but _something’s_ got to be done. “When she gives him those detentions, you know, for doing something stupid like not tucking in his shirt on weekends, even though it’s about five times his size so how would he anyway…”

Dumbledore’s expression suddenly turned very dangerous.

“Are you sure, Mr. Weasley?”

“Yes, sir.” Ron said. “It’s really easy to prove. She used a blood quill.”

“Of course.” Dumbledore murmured, glancing at one of the odd contraptions on his desk. “Thank you.”

This year, the whole school has had mandatory classes with Umbridge. They’re not really classes, since you don’t learn anything, but if you don’t show up, unlike in previous years regarding HOM, you get an immediate detention with the woman herself.

And nobody wants those. Not given what happens to the kids who get them.

But Ron knows what’s about to happen. The Head Girl and Boy and, by extension, all the prefects – unfortunately including Zabini – had been notified. Surprisingly, Percy’s indignation in first-year makes a little more sense now, given this, but really, Ron doesn’t want to think about him, at all; his traitor brother, so instead, he waits.

He’d told Harry. You weren’t supposed to tell people, but he couldn’t help it. Harry deserved to know, really. And it wasn’t explicitly against the rules. It had only been implied.

Harry had told Sirius, through the mirror. The look on his face had been ecstatic, really, and in a way, that had been infectious.

She was going to get what was coming to her.

Through the door, halfway through the lecture, when Umbridge was in the middle of once again denouncing the claim that Lord Voldemort, He Who Must Not Be Named; You Know Who, and to a select few, _Tom Marvolo Riddle,_ was indeed back, and was, at the same time, pushing the _Harry and Dumbledore are crazy_ side of things.

The narrative the Ministry preferred. But, not everyone in it’s midst was corrupt, and even if they didn’t believe you know who was back just yet, well, they didn’t care for supposed instructors torturing students very much, in general.

“This is a raid, Delores,” One auror says. She sends a wink the students way, and it’s Tonks, of course. “A long time coming, too,” Another says, a weedy voiced man with very low set eyebrows. “You were always awful back in the day, if I remember.”

“You can’t be-” Umbridge blustered, but she’s incarceroused and expelliarmused before she can blink, really, so she stops herself.

“Watson, Barbage,” The weedy-voiced man said, “Go search her office.”

“Aye-aye,” The female one mutters, and jogs upstairs after her partner. They’ve got muggle wedding rings on. Ron wonders at the circumstances before shrugging it off. Not really important.

It doesn’t take long to find the quills. Umbridge, for all her supposed cunning, isn’t really all that smart.

After that, well, things go back to a relative normal. Moody’s teaching is surprisingly similar to that of Crouch-Moody’s, but it’s got less of a focus on being under the effects of a curse and more on how to fight _properly._

“Now,” He said, gruffly, “I don’t want to hear anything about Voldemort not being back. Even if he isn’t – which he _is –_ there’s no reason you shouldn’t practice CONSTANT VIGILENCE.”

Honestly, having gotten used to Barty-Moody, the real one actually almost seemed like a knock-off, like things weren’t quite right. If something was bothering a student as obviously as the cruciatus curse bothered Neville, he’d stop, strangely. He’d coax it into the course, over weeks, but he wouldn’t force it upon them all at once.

That was good for the dark curses segment.

“We aren’t teaching you how to use these.” He said, as he floated a bucket over to a student who looked particularly green. “There, lad, have that.” He added, “No, we’re teaching you how to fix the damage.”

He turned around and wrote a word on the board.

Sectumsempra.

“You won’t read this in any of yer books,” Mad-eye continued. “And if you do, I want you to bring it to me.” He narrowed his eyes at each of them in turn. “Understood?”

They all nodded, and he returned to his lecture, satisfied. “It’s dark. One of the darkest I’ve come across, despite it’s deceptively simple nature.

"A simple way to put it is the muggle phrase; death by a thousand cuts. It doesn’t heal. Normal healing magic doesn’t work on it. You bleed out, slowly, painfully, debilitatingly. It’s a torture curse, plain and simple, like the cruciatus, but not emotion driven. That is perhaps it’s worst offence. Can anyone tell me why?”

“Someone could cast it by accident,” Ron found himself saying. “Just read the spell out loud and it’s done.”

“Exactly,” Moody grinned and it was the same grin that Crouch-Moody had perfected. A little demented, but not cruel. Satisfied that his students were getting it.

“It has no wand movement.” Moody said. “It is a surprisingly low powered spell, mainly because, like the cruciatus, it is a spell you most hold. But when it breaks, unlike the cruciatus, the affects aren’t removed. Like the cruciatus, it can cause permanent damage, but it does it easier. And,” Moody looked around at all of them, “You’ve all met the man who made it.”

There was silence. “Remember,” Mad-eye barked. “ _Constant vigilance.”_

* * *

 

They have a few more lessons on this specific curse.

“Why are we still on this, sir?” Someone from the back, a Ravenclaw girl, asked. Mad-eye repeated her words and she shrunk in her seat.

“Does anyone have an answer to Turpin’s question?”

“Because it was used a lot, wasn’t it?” Hermione says. “In the last war. I read about it in old issues of the daily prophet. A new spell.”

“One nobody had heard of.” Mad-eye agreed. “Good, Granger. _Very_ good. One point to Gryffindor.”

Mad-eye didn’t tend to award or remove points. Apparently, he thought nothing of the system. Detentions and proper praise were enough, in his eyes.

He only did it on rare occasions. When someone managed to truly impress him. Practising Constant Vigilance was a sure way to get them, though - and researching the last war counts as that.

“This was most common among Death Eaters,” Mad-eye said, his magical eye roving around the classroom at speed. “And Death Eaters were around at a ratio of one of them to two of us, or thereabouts, and that doesn’t sound much, but you must understand,” He narrowed his eyes at them all. “There are less than a million witches and wizards in this country. _All over_ this country. There are a million muggles in London alone.” He frowned across at them all. “Or something like that. My point – our population in general doesn’t seem like much. But we can and have done a lot of damage. Take my face as an example,” He grinned, the expression too sharp, the edges jagged - “Of what we can do and what we can survive, compared to the average muggle. One third of our population is enough to do some severe damage to this country of ours. Enough to take it over from the muggles, if they’re incentivised enough. And Death Eaters, blood purists, all them lot, they _are._ And we can’t have that, because they will not hold up the statute of security, and then, well, we’ll _all_ be doomed. Muggle or Magical.”

That didn’t really seem to answer the girl’s question. But that didn’t rightly matter – what he was saying was information nobody had ever told him before, and by the looks on his classmates faces, they hadn’t known either.

“But sir,” Another Ravenclaw said. Male, this time. “We’ve gone over everything about this curse. We know it’s effects inside and out.”

“That is true.” Mad-eye said. “But there is one last thing.”

“What?” Another asked.

“The practical.” Moody said. “You must be able to reverse the spell. Otherwise, one of these days, someone you know is going to bleed out on the floor when you could have done something to stop it.”

* * *

 

The rest of the year passes similarly. With Mad-Eyes tuition, most people are simultaneously well-prepared and slightly terrified, where as others are simply one or the other.

Ron’s kind of dealt with too much to be anything other than well-prepared. So, has Hermione, and Ginny, and Harry, and well, yeah, that’s it that he knows of.

“Using one dark curse isn’t going to sully your souls,” Mad eye had said. “And there is something I need to test in all of you. So – we have permission, this once, for these lessons only, to see if you can perform three spells. You may opt out if you wish,” He added, eye swivelling over Neville and Harry and back again.

“I will not be teaching you the spells.” He said. “I refuse, plain and simple. You may look them up. It is unfortunately easy to get a hold of books that will teach you in the library, despite these spells being what they are.”

“You want us to use the Unforgivables?” Harry said, shocked.

“Yes, Potter. The Unforgivables.”

“Can I opt out, professor?” Neville said. It wasn’t quiet, or timid, not now. Apparently, he’d grown into some confidence without anyone noticing.

“Certainly, lad.” Moody said. “Which one?”

“Cruciatus and Killing curse.” He said. “Maybe if I understand Imperio more, I can fight it off better.”

“Good thinking.” The man said. “The _right_ reason to want to know these spells in any sort of way. One point to Gryffindor.”

Neville nodded, pleased, and then Mad-Eye turned to the rest of them.

“Well?” He barked out. “Anyone else?”

A lot of people forfeited the killing curse, the cruciatus. Maybe it was last year, being under the spell the way they had been, but Imperio didn’t seem so bad, really, to understand. Not if it made it easier to throw off, and it wasn’t painful, exactly. Just odd.

Of course, there were people who weren’t doing this for the right reasons. Ron knew that. He couldn’t really do anything about it, though, so he found some kind of acceptance in the fact that he was, at least. And so were most of the people in this room.

Ginny had apparently opted to do all of them. Ron wasn’t so surprised, really. Just worried, a little. The same at Harry, who hadn’t opted out of any of them either.

Hermione had opted out of the killing curse. In some strange sense of support, for his sister and for Harry, Ron hadn’t opted out of any of them. Maybe his little sister and Harry might – he doesn’t know. Maybe it’ll be better if somebody else does all three, too.

Someone who isn’t Zabini, for example, who is doing all three. He was smirky and smug the whole meeting that week, and everyone was tired of him by the end. Malfoy would have been worse, though, Ron knows. He’s worried about having to do something, if only because he’s worried some kid’s gonna get hurt because Zabini’s a prick.

“Why’d you do it?” Harry asks that night. The common room is mostly empty, and when Ron eyes the people still there, they leave.

Firsties. So scared. He sort-of remembered being that scared, but that was when he’d been in a chess match to the death, so maybe he didn’t have the best fear-level-indicator.

“I dunno,” Ron said. “Mostly because I don’t know what you’re asking about.”

“Shove off, you git,” Harry said, “You know exactly what I’m talking about. Why’d you choose to do all three?”

Ron shrugged.

“You can’t counter the killing curse.” Harry said. “This is only to prove if you can cast it or not. _Three_ dark curses Ron. And not just any. The Unforgivables.”

“Then why’d you do it?” Ron demanded. “Huh?”

“I don’t want to be capable of any of them.” Harry said. “But you know me. Curious.”

“Then call me curious, too.” Ron said, stubborn. “If that’s all it takes.”

Harry eyed him warily, didn’t respond. Ron sighs, leaned his head back on the armchair.

Harry’s on the couch, on his back, kind of. He’s short enough that his feet don’t quite reach the other end, and it’s not that big of a couch, really.

“Y’know,” Harry said, “If you weren’t still a prefect, we could actually be doing something right now.”

“Still a prefect?” Ron asked.

“Made a prefect,” Harry corrected himself. “I mean. It’s just inconvenient.”

Ron snorted. Harry grinned, lightly. He wasn’t much better – there were still days he blamed himself for everything, of course. Days he was angry, days he was sad, days when his mood flipped like a galleon toss, but there were days like this, and like that day on the pitch back at the burrow, when he wasn’t so bad, really, when he seemed to be getting better.

They happened more often, now. It’s almost Christmas, and Ron really hopes it’ll last.

* * *

 

Mad-Eye schedules it like this:

Monday – Cruciatus.

Wednesday – Imperio.

Friday – Avada Kedavra.

Hermione is her usual terrifying intellectual self. She researches everything, top to bottom, left to right, back to front. It’s not that she wants to get this right – she’s not bothering trying to will up the emotions she’d need; like genuine sadism or homicidal urges, but she put it like this:

“I want to know.” She’d said. “What spell someone’s about to cast at me before they even start saying the word. If I need to dodge or to block or to get their wand away from them as fast as possible.”

Ron got that. A lot of the others did, too.

There were some students – ones that knew the original root of the killing curse – that had only chosen to do that one. They took what she’d said to heart, if they heard it. And, because it made sense, spread it to those that didn’t.

“The Killing Curse…” Ron sighed. Harry was still bewildered by their choice, there. “It used to be different. Execution charm. It was – not good, but it wasn’t bad, either, technically. Grey. Didn’t need emotion, just, uh, intellectual understanding, I guess.”

“A specific word there; _used_ ,” Harry said, tone biting. “And, pray tell, what changed?”

“It was used on farm animals,” Ron said. “To give them a clean, quick, and painless death. Then someone got the _bright_ idea to use it on a person when feeling actual murderous intent, and butchering the pronunciation a bit, and… there it is. Avada Kedavra.”

“Right.” Harry said, dubiously. “Sure.”

Ron shrugged. It was the truth, and that was that, but Harry could disbelieve it if he wanted to. Ron had never and wasn’t planning to bring up that a protection spell which turned the attacker to dust couldn’t exactly be the lightest of magic, really, if you think about it, because that would be so much more tactless than Ron actually is, thanks. 

* * *

 

Ron doesn’t get the killing curse to work, thank Merlin. Nor does he get the Imperius curse to work, either. The feel of that magic, slimy and dark and wrong, it feels like the locket, insidious, waiting to creep into someone’s head and hollow out a place for itself to stay. Ron’s hand is shaking after his time is up, and Mad-Eye doesn’t comment, just hands him a mug of tea and a book.

_Occlumency._

Ron frowns at it, drinks his tea.

Occlumency. The art of closing your mind to outward intrusions.

Ron casts _geminio_ on the book and hands a copy each to Ginny and Harry, then makes one for Hermione, too, because she should get one, might as well.

It’s just. More important. For Ginny, for Harry.

For Ron, too, if he’s honest with himself. He can still feel it, even all these months later, and they’re due back to Grimmauld for Christmas. It’s going to worm its magic back into his head, and he’s not going to be able to do anything. Because even with Occlumency, it takes forever to learn, and Ron doesn’t have the best patience.

He tries, anyway.

Ron didn’t mention the cruciatus curse, earlier.

Mad-Eye didn’t give him the book until after the Imperius curse session. But he does stare him down until he talks after the cruciatus curse session.

Ron didn’t really expect to be able to cast it. Sure, he gets angry sometimes, but that didn’t feel _right._ Like – like the Locket or the House was still in his head, making his emotions all haywire. But Ron’s hand had remained steady, and that creeping cold made its way into the back of his head, and he cast it without much thought, really. Or emotion.

Ron didn’t like that at all.

And Mad-Eye must have seen something off, maybe. Because he took him aside for a moment, after Ron let go of the curse (a little too late, a few beats after the timer went off, why, why, why) and sat him down, gave him a mug of tea.

Ron glanced at the foe glass Mad-Eye had.

“Bartemius Junior at least knew my tastes,” Mad-Eye said, wryly. “The foe glass was a nice choice, if reckless on his part.”

“It showed his enemies.” Ron said. “I never came in here, but Harry did. He said the glass was always full of shadowy people.”

“Because he was a Death Eater,” Mad-Eye said. “ _Near_ everyone in this castle was his enemy.”

“Right.” Ron said. They lapsed into silence.

“So.” Mad-Eye said. “You made the curse work.”

Ron nodded, slightly miserable at the fact.

“Chin up, lad,” The man barked. “D’you think you’re the only one? I’ve used it, many times. Did you not notice my phrasing?”

_You made the curse work._

Ron shrugged. “I guess.” He said.

“Be more certain.” Moody snapped. “Did you or did you not?”

“Yes.” Ron said. “I made the curse work.”

“And what does that mean?”

“I use a dark spell,” Ron said. “With barely any trouble at all.”

“Wrong, Weasley.” Mad-eye said. “You used a dark curse as a grey spell. Aurors do it all the time, lad.”

“What?” Ron asked. “Keep up,” Mad-Eye demanded. “You’ve got a brain on those shoulders, use it.”

Ron thought, for a moment.

“I didn’t use emotion.” Ron said, slowly. “So, it wasn’t dark, and it wasn’t light. But it’s a dark curse.” Ron frowned. “I mean, they’re – it’s _dark.”_

“Darker than the others.” Mad-Eye agreed. “Why we did it first. Weed out the dangerous from the naïve and the stupid and the capable.”

Mad-Eye’s human eye gleamed with what could generously be called amusement. “Your bushy-haired friend fits into two of those categories rather well.”

Ron shrugged. “She can be a bit – terrifying, sometimes, but she means – she’s good.”

Mad-Eye laughed, a rough, gruff sound, like sandpaper. “She’d make a good auror.” He said. “Too busy thinking about changing the world, though, I expect.”

 _S.P.E.W.’_ Ron shrugged, and nodded.

“Well,” Mad-Eye said. “The point is, lad, don’t worry too much.” He narrowed his eyes at Ron.

“Constant vigilance does not mean undue paranoia.” Moody said. “Especially about yourself. The one thing you should be able to trust wholeheartedly is your own self.”

Ron nodded.

“Tell you what,” Mad-Eye said, “Next time, I’ll have something for you. I think you’ll need it.”

Ron doesn’t ask what.

(It's the Occlumency book.)

* * *

 

Harry passed them all. He wasn’t exactly pleased, but there was a grim sort of determined satisfaction on his face, and maybe that was worse.

Dobby had found a room they could hide in, back when Harry was being ridiculed every day. It wasn’t as necessary now, what with no inquisitor and Mad-Eye making things seem a little more likely to some, and the Daily Prophet becoming less reliable as the year went on and people’s family went missing and none of it was reported.

Still. If Ron couldn’t find him, Harry was probably in the Room.

It was late. Past curfew. Ron was on patrol tonight, and he’d just stopped by the seventh floor corridor, the one with the portrait of Barnabus The Barny. He hadn’t seen Harry in the common room when he left, and honestly, Ron was going to have to take points, but, well, maybe he could find an excuse to give them back at some point.

Ron didn’t have to pace three times. The door appeared, and Harry appeared from behind it, invisible under his cloak for a moment before he sighed and lowered the hood.

“Guess you’re gonna have to take points, then,” Harry said. Ron shrugged said “Five points from Gryffindor,” wryly, because he knew from personal experience that this was nowhere near a first offence.

“Where’s Hermione?”

“With Boot,” Ron said. “Padma’s with MacMillan. Zabini’s with Davis. The Hufflepuffs are ill. Dragon pox, weirdly enough.”

“Sounds like chicken pox,” Harry said. “Is it dangerous?”

“Not really.” Ron said. “You breathe fire for a bit and your skin goes all scaly but all you’re left with after is a sore throat for about a month.”

“I forget your levels of ‘dangerous’ are screwed up, sometimes.” Harry said, grinning, and Ron protested. “Your fault,” He grumbled, expression belying that he’s not actually annoyed or angry, and Harry shrugged, unabashed. “Not really,” He said. “Yes, really,” Ron grinned. “Or, yeah, maybe not.”

Harry gestures behind himself. “Do you wanna stay for a bit?” He asked. “Maybe play some chess?”

“Sure,” Ron said.

He wins his first match in over a year, and Harry doesn’t even complain about it. Maybe because Ron doesn’t feel as weird as he previously did, or whatever. Maybe he doesn’t complain because he can tell.

Ron kind of… gave up on taking points from Harry at some point. No, really. Honestly that – that was kind of inevitable. If he hadn’t, they’d have lost all of them by now.

It was the start of the winter holidays, Yule, Christmas as they celebrate it now, thanks to muggle influence over the decades. It’s a little hard to find Yuletide decorations, after all, but Christmas is everywhere.

It’s late, and really, they’re out past curfew, but it’s not as enforced as during the school months. So long as you sleep at some point, it’s all good.

So - they’re in the Room again. Hermione is off in Bulgaria, with her parents. Apparently, they really like it there. Seems like Krum’s parents and Hermione’s are fast friends, or something. Hermione seems happy enough, and Ron isn’t as jealous as he was just earlier this year.

Ron supposes, now he can think about it a little more, without the house interfering, or the locket, the he had a crush. On her. For a bit, there.

Only her. Of course.

Right.

Ron coughed, moved his piece, and Harry raised an eyebrow at him. They hadn’t really talked about the fact that Harry managed all the spells, except to say that he did. Ron managed the cruciatus, and that seemed to make Harry feel a little better.

Ginny had managed only one. Imperio. She hadn’t talked to them for a straight week, and went to Grimmauld straight from Dumbledore’s office, instead of taking the train. Ron doesn’t know what she did, but she got it so they could stay behind, if they wanted, and Ron was – the most grateful.

He really didn’t want to go back there. _Ever._

Harry moved his piece, and Ron moved his, and he won the game. Again.

“You win every time,” Harry complained, but he was smiling, so you know. Score.

He kept having these weird dreams, Harry did. About some corridor, with a door at the end. Harry said it looked a lot like that place he’d seen in the Ministry before his trial, the door Malfoy Senior had been talking to Fudge next to. Honestly, neither of them were any good at divination, and really, neither of them cared all that much.

They were just weird dreams, is all.

“Yep,” Ron said.

“Not that fair,” Harry said. “How about we play something I have a chance at beating you at? Like exploding snap?”

“Do you even have a set?” Ron asked.

“No,” Harry said. “But we’re in the Room. It’s got to have one, right?”

Harry busied himself looking through a bin that suddenly appeared in the centre of the room. Ron shook his head, and sat back.

He seemed better. But that gross familiar feeling was still there, and Ron found his gaze drawn towards Harry’s scar way more often than it used to, and he couldn’t exactly explain that away, not when Harry’s fringe was long enough to hit his eyebrows at this point, so you couldn’t even see it, really.

It’s easy, really, to ignore. Ron had been unknowingly ignoring it for years, to be truthful. Since he’d met the kid on the train who bought the whole trolley and shared it all with _him._

“Looks like – nope,” Harry sighed, and kept searching. Ron frowned, and looked away.

He really just wants something interesting to do.

Harry stepped back to the couches as the room shifted around them.

“What did you do?” He asked, and Ron blinked. “Uh, sorry?” He said. “I can’t help idle thoughts!”

The room was different, now. A maze, of sorts, but one you could kind of see through, and looked nicer than most mazes.

“At least it’s not a hedge maze,” Harry said. “Why a maze, though?”

“I just wanted something interesting to do,” Ron protested. “I didn’t choose a maze, Merlin no.”

“Oh.” Harry said, as he looked around.

“It’s a practice arena.”

And, yeah, Ron could see that, now. Bit badly laid out, mind, but he could see it all the same.

“Cool,” Harry said, grinning, and alright. Why not.

Why not was apparently because they were way more out of shape than they thought.

“But we play quidditch,” Ron complained.

“Not the most active thing in the world,” Harry said. “I mean, we just sort of do a lot of sitting. And, look, mate, you don’t even play on a team yet, so you don’t have to do any training or anything.”

“Great.” Ron panted. “Just perfect. So we’re bloody useless then?”

“No,” Harry said, “Mostly because I don’t think I’ve ever seen a witch or wizard work out. So everyone’s kind of useless. It balances out.”

“Boo to that.” Ron grumbled.

“Well, why don’t we just work on that Occlumency of yours?” Harry asked. “And maybe do some actual exercise. I mean, we’re sports people. Should probably start acting like it.”

“Why not,” Ron said again.

Why not indeed, this time. It worked out a lot better for them, actually, especially when they thought of just using the pitch. The school was oddly quiet, and for once, there was only two other Gryffindors, and they were seventh years, two girls, and Ron didn’t even know their names.

Christmas meals were like they’d been the other times Ron had stayed back. The adults got drunk and broke crackers and it was so odd yet weirdly nice, to see their teachers just be people like that.

Occlumency was going alright. Ron didn’t know if it was working, or whatever, but the mind-palace thing was slowly coming to shape. The Burrow was the obvious choice, as was his dorm room. He had to feel safe there, of course, but he didn’t want it to be something so easy to figure out.

He used the Room. Why not. Things never worked out badly for him when he did them for that reason _, nope._

It was harder, Ron knew. To do this with something that malleable. But, well, he figured it was worth it.

“It should be somewhere you feel safe.” Harry repeated. He sighed, closed his eyes. “Where on _earth_ do I feel _safe?”_

Ron probably wasn’t supposed to hear that. To be fair, he did look like he was asleep on the couch, but that was because Harry’s talking had woken him up.

“Wha’s’tha’?” Ron asked, kind of, voice sleep-muffled, as he rubbed at his eyes and sat up. “Where you feel safe?”

Harry frowned up at him. He was on the floor, leaning over the coffee table, and there were a bunch of books lying open to various places. “Yeah.” Harry said. “Where I feel safe.” He sounded a bit sullen about discussing this.

“Don’t choose somewhere obvious.” Ron said. “The only places are obvious ones, though.” Harry said. “Like where?” Ron asked.

Harry shrugged. His face tinged pink, slightly, so Ron didn’t press.

“Alright,” Ron said. “Don’t tell me. But think about it. Uh, what about our dorm?”

“You got attacked in there, remember?” Harry said, “Granted, it was Sirius, but he still got in. And Ginny trashed the place looking for Tom’s diary. It’s not actually all that safe.”

“Alright,” Ron sighed. “The castle in general?”

Harry paused. “That’s really big, though.”

“I used this place,” Ron gestured, and Harry snorted. “Go big or go home, I guess,” He muttered, and nodded. “Yeah, alright.” Harry said. “All of a place I feel safe.”

Then, two days before Christmas, Harry wakes Ron up, screaming and hissing and swearing, and Ron’s heard enough of Harry’s snake stuff over the years to know when the hissing is _also_ swearing.

Then he shouts out _“NO”_ At the top of his lungs, and shits up, bolt upright, and stares at Ron, wild-eyed. “Your dad,” Harry said, “Ron, _your dad.”_

* * *

 

It saved his life. Harry’s night-time wandering _saved his dad’s life._

If they hadn’t gotten there – if – if Harry hadn’t demanded – if they hadn’t believed him –

_Fuck._

Ron kind of just stared at Harry, as did most of the rest of his family. He’d saved Arthur’s life. A husband, a father. A father figure, even, to Harry, maybe, because Harry doesn’t really have one of his own, though – perhaps Sirius counts these days, and well, that’s all beside the point.

They’re back at Grimmauld, and Ron can’t think about the creeping cold slowly inching its way up his spine. Can’t, or he’ll go crazy, because it’s the very same coldness he’d felt when he cast that cruciatus and hadn’t felt anything about it, negative or positive. Complete apathy.

Ron didn’t do apathy. It just wasn’t in his nature to do anything of the sort. And. Well. It was kind of scary. Not feeling anything at all.

So, instead, he stares at Harry for a probably uncomfortable length of time. Everyone goes upstairs at some point, tired out by the ordeal. But it’s dawn by the time either of them bothers, and Ron only really moves because Harry did.

“Stop _staring,”_ Harry demanded, once they were in the room they shared.

“Sorry,” Ron said. “Sorry. I just.”

Ron wasn’t sure what to say.

“Thank you.” He settled for. It didn’t feel like enough.

“Thank you?” Harry asked. “Thank – you’re thanking me?” Harry demanded, but there was vulnerability under that Ron didn’t know what to do with.

“Yeah.” Ron said. “You – Merlin, Harry, you _saved my dad’s life.”_

“No I didn’t,” Harry said. “In the dream. I was the snake. I know I was.”

“Who _cares?”_ Ron said. Loudly. Too loudly, maybe. “My dad is _not dead_. He’s not dead because of you. He’s in St. Mungo’s right now _because_ you warned us.”

Harry blinked at him.

“I don’t know what’s going on.” He said, and it’s different to the loud rage of beforehand. Different to the sombre silence, to the reverent appraisal.

“I think I’m possessed. Am I?”

Quiet. Scared.

“No.” Ron said, but even as he said it, he’s not sure.

“Liar,” Harry accused. Ron couldn’t say he wasn’t. “Ask Ginny,” Ron managed. He couldn’t help. He wasn’t helpful, here. There were other people that could be, though.

“Oh.” Harry said.

“Right.”

And then the bespectacled boy was gone, and Ron hadn’t meant _right now_ , but okay. Sure.

Ron got into his bed, faced the door, and didn’t sleep at all.

* * *

 

“So you sent him my way,” Ginny said. “Couldn’t handle it?”

Ron felt suddenly very angry, and he knew it was that awful _Familiar_ magic, so he squashed it, but that creeping cold, the creeping, insidious cold of that apathetic _grey,_ now he thinks, that apathetic grey magic, it creeps in. Because really, all he feels is guilty.

“I wanted to be able to.” Ron found himself saying, but it sounded a little hollow even to his own ears. Ginny paused in her slathering of bright-red jam, and how can a colour he sees in a mirror (or close enough, anyway) every time he looks in one be so conflicting?

“I know.” Ginny said, softly. “I got him to stop thinking he needed to close off from us, but I-” She paused. “I don’t really know what else I can do. I think the rest might be up to you and Hermione, Ron.”

Hermione meant well. But Harry was never all that happy about the way she did things like this. For someone who tried to lambast them both for their tact, she could be incredibly lacking of it herself, sometimes.

“I…” Ron started. He faltered, looked down onto his empty plate. Did he even serve himself anything? Ron frowned. It had been a long night.

“You look tired,” Ginny said. “Go, get some sleep.” She stared at him, and Ron was too tired to read her expression. “Go on.”

Ron did, and that was mostly because she was right. And that he didn’t want to be hexed into next Sunday, but that was irrelevant. 

* * *

 

Ron woke up to Harry reading an Occlumency book, the quiet turning of worn pages the only sound in the silence. Ron couldn’t even hear either of their breathing.

“You awake?” Harry asked. Ron had it on record that he snored, entirely due to the fact that brothers and sisters will tease each other about faults that they all share as if they didn’t.

So it wasn’t really asking, more of a statement, but Ron sat up, looked over to Harry and nodded.

“ _Lumos,”_ Harry said, quietly, and his wand lit up. He wasn’t holding it.

“Huh.” Ron said.

“I did it at the beginning of summer.” Harry said. “When the Dementors… well. Anyway, I figured, well, if I can do it then I can bloody well do it now.”

“Yeah,” Ron said. “How though?”

“I don’t know,” Harry shrugged. “It’s not quite wandless, because it uses the wand. But I don’t use the wand to cast the spell. So…”

“Maybe it’s the core.” Ron said. “Phoenix feather wands are notorious for it. Doing weird shit without their owner’s consent.”

“Great,” Harry said, laughingly. Not really amused, but it was nice to hear, anyway.

“We should keep working on the Occlumency,” Ron said, abrupt.

“Yeah.” Harry said. “Make sure I wake up, yeah?”

Ron nodded. You kind of had to watch over people when they did this. Since, you know, they could get stuck, and need an outside influence to wake up again. 

* * *

 

Watching someone as they slept was that weird mix of creepy and boring (and kind of nice, but only in certain circumstances and this was most certainly not them, thanks; this was his best mate, not some girl, or Hermione, or what have you, who have you, _whatever_ -) and it was tiring in a way you don’t really think it would be.

It had taken a little while before Harry woke up. Ron had only had to wake him once or twice, when he was under for too long, a little while back, and that was apparently because he got a little stuck.

Ron didn’t ask. They’d been onto the ‘childhood memories’ section. He – well. He kind of figured that part would be difficult, if you had to imagine somewhere safe. And you had a life like Harry’s.

“Okay,” Harry said, after rubbing at his eyes. “Your turn.” 

* * *

 

Christmas came and went and it was actually really nice, despite the coldness in his bones, and really, Ron was fairly happy, even if he kind of wished Hermione could be here, but she had her own family, too, and though they were home now, they’d been in Bulgaria for a week or so.

Apparently, Krum had moved. Ron thinks it might be because his old headmaster had been a death eater and, well, Hermione was a muggle born. And, by all rights, when he thought about it, considering the school Krum went to, it was actually a surprising show of character that the man had avoided being brainwashed.

So, uh. Hermione was sixteen, now. Duh. She’d turned that age back in September. Forever ago, really.

 It just means she’ll be able to do stuff like cast magic and apparate before the rest of them, annoyingly.

Whatever. She’s not here right now.

Ron got some stuff for Christmas, and except for, well, Percy, it was all pretty good. Hermione showed up on boxing day with presents and cards and they have another mini-Christmas, and she confides in them – the both of them, him and Harry – that really, she was glad Krum invited them again, because it stopped her parents taking her skiing, which, well, wasn’t really something she enjoyed.

She got them rhyming homework planners. Ron got her – judging by her expression – bad perfume, and well. If he was going to be given a _homework planner,_ he’s not going to feel bad about perfume.

Maybe a little.

 _Bloody hell._ Whatever.

* * *

 

They visited his dad the day after, and it… went.

It went. Dad apparently thought it’d be a brilliant idea to try out muggle cures on his injuries, and at Molly’s ensuing tirade, well, they all kind of scattered.

Best let that happen.

Anyway, well, they – Harry, Ron, Hermione, Ginny – went elsewhere. Fred and George had gone off, and Ron didn’t much care to wonder where.

And, well.

Lockhart. The less said about that encounter, the better. And then Neville, and his overpowering Grandmother – and overpowering is the word, here, not overbearing, and she was a right bit awful about the whole thing, and Ron did feel pretty bad for Neville, having all this aired when he obviously hadn’t wanted that, but there wasn’t much that could be done.

Given who he lived with, Ron wasn’t really all that surprised Neville was like how he was. But – the teen kept the wrapper his mum gave him even against his grandmother’s wishes, so. He’s got some backbone, there, and it’s sad, really, the situation - but how he deals with it… it’s respectable.

Apparently, Kreacher had been missing, or something. Sirius got the bright idea to order the house elf to never leave the house unless specifically instructed by an Order Member that _wasn’t_ a double agent – thereby excluding Snape without saying that out loud, which was obvious enough, really, you didn’t have to think about it much, if Ron could figure it out, then anyone could, honestly – and the elf started grumbling and had a much darker mood, now, than he’d had even before whatever had made him what Harry had tentatively labelled as ‘brighter’ – at which, Ron had snorted – had been found out.

Anyway. That was all because of what Harry had revealed Dobby was able to do even when under the Malfoys’ control, and since Dobby had _very much_ not liked them and Kreacher’s distaste was _severely_ obvious, well, you could put two and two together.

On another note – the holidays were drawing to a close. Hermione was going to say goodbye in the next couple days and go home, stay with her family for the last week. Apparently, she said, a little sullen, she hadn’t gotten out of skiing.

“Maybe it’d be fun,” Hermione had said, sort-of wistfully, “If you all could come with us.”

Harry had shrugged. Ron had never seen anything like what she described the mountains of France to be like – they weren’t like Scotland’s, or Egypt’s large dunes. Maybe skiing would be fun, but really, flying was better in every way. From how Hermione made it seem, it was even _less_ dangerous; the flying versus the skiing. Ron didn’t really think so, but sure. Whatever.

Anyway. The place got a bit deserted once again; Ginny was allowed to leave to visit friends and to go give out presents because Mad-Eye had gotten paranoid about letters being followed back here by magic or by people exactly the way he had the summer previous and so Ginny was visiting people and staying at the burrow with their Mum for a bit, therefore, once again it was Sirius, Buckbeak, Harry, Ron and Kreacher as the permanent residents.

Well. Remove ‘again’ from Kreacher, and add a dubious tone to Buckbeak. Since Ron isn’t even sure if he’s still here or not. He hasn’t heard him in a while, but that could just be silencing spells. He _had_ tended to wake up Walburga’s painting, after all.

Speaking of which – Sirius was currently having a heated yelling match with said painting, Kreacher was muttering purist rhetoric while cleaning the dresser in Ron’s and Harry’s room, and neither of them really wanted to hear either right now, so they went into the basement again, and because they didn’t want to bother Sirius, they went under the cloak.

“Right,” Harry said, when they got inside, and he shut the door behind himself. Ron went over to the couch and dropped on it, and Harry put the cloak on the back of an armchair, sat down on the very same object.

“Right,” Ron echoed. 

* * *

 

It was midday, way to early to be drinking, really, if Ron was honest or cared much about that, but Harry was eying the Globe they’d found that contained more booze. Some muggle, hilariously, and some not.

Hilariously, given the previous owners of this house. Ironic, really.

“Wine has a higher alcohol content.” Harry said, absently. “Sirius said to avoid it, but jokingly I reckon, because he was the one that said telling us to do that would be stupid. Since it’d just make us more likely to do the opposite; his words.”

“True,” Ron said. “What’s in there?”

“No idea,” Harry said, standing. Once he had moved over and picked up a bottle, he sighed and squinted slightly. “The font’s awful.”

“Kind of garbage,” Ron agreed, grabbed a random bottle and frowned at it. “Why not.”

“You know, there’s probably a bunch of reasons.” Harry said. “But who really cares? We drink beer legally. What’s some wine going to do?”

Give them a splitting headache. But that wasn’t yet.

“So like,” Harry snickered, “You gave ‘mione _perfume,”_

“Yeah,” Ron grumbled, face smashed into a pillow. They’d drank the bottle, again. You kind of forgot, at some point, that you should probably stop, and then, well, the bottle was empty, so, well, maybe you grabbed another one, maybe you didn’t, whatever, he’s _drunk._

“Serves her right for giving us _homework planners_ ,” Ron grumbled, but he’d decided to give her that before he’d known she’d be _like that,_ so whatever. He was bad at presents.

Most of the time it was food, because you didn’t have to buy food. Mum made it, or whatever. Ron couldn’t – well. Sweets were affordable. So that’s what he got people. A few knuts, maybe a sickle or two wasn’t too bad. It just kind of added up. Whatever. But, anyway, Hermione’s parents were – those muggle teeth people, and so, well, she never ate them. So that was a waste. So. So he’d tried something different, and it sucked, so he wasn’t doing _that_ again. Ever.

The fact that Hermione could afford to get this shit – the broom cleaning kit for Harry last year and the other things she’s gotten them during the time she’s known them… eh. Ron kind of wishes – but there’s no point in that, is there? So… nevermind.

* * *

 

A few – however long later, or whatever, Ron woke up on the floor. Harry had fallen asleep on the armchair at some point, and Ron frowned at him for a second as his brain caught up to what had happened.

Alright. They’d got drunk, talked, and passed out. Alright.

It was late, but not like, overly so, and the house sounded deserted. The muffled shouts of Sirius and his Mother could no longer be heard, and Ron wondered about that for a second before his brain reminded him he needed to fix this headache.

He got up, stumbled over to the cupboard. He grabbed two doses of the hangover stuff, returned to the couch and put Harry’s on the coffee table, then drank his own.

Harry woke up a little bit later, when Ron’s hangover was mostly gone. He still felt a little fuzzy, but that was probably due to falling asleep at two in the afternoon.

“We should do the occlumency stuff,” Harry said. They didn’t really have much to do, aside from get drunk, or practice magic. Hermione had badgered them into finishing their homework before she left, so he couldn’t even do any of that. Not that he _would_ have, but still.

“Right,” Ron agreed.

Occlumency was going alright. Ron could tell the difference between the creeping cold of the house and that strange coldness in his bones he’d had when he cast that curse, but it wasn’t all that different, and he certainly couldn’t get rid of either. Ron had never noticed that coldness before, not until this year, and he knew full well it was because of this house, because of that Locket, the one that was Tom Riddle but not, and he wondered why it was still here.

Ginny was better, now. Sometimes when someone did something she’d hex them a bit too hard and too much, at least, when Ron was around to see it. Or just Harry, since she didn’t tend to do it when only Ron was there, but now wasn’t the time to be thinking about that, now he needed to focus on _this_ ; fix it up, put his memories away, kinda just – shove them in there a bit haphazard because, well, he’s a teenager, it’s going to be a little messy, but whatever.

Ron gets first-year sorted out. When he wakes up, it’s to Harry tapping him on the shoulder.

“C’mon,” He said. “Food.”

Ron nodded, suddenly noticing how hungry he was. “Yeah - yeah.” He nodded, stood, and the two made their way upstairs. 

* * *

 

When Ron saw Harry next, he looked a little pale. He’d been talking to Ginny – or maybe Ginny had been talking at him, because she turned around when she heard Ron approach, stormed off.

“What was that about?”

“Well, she’s still pretty pissed I forgot she was possessed,” Harry said, dryly, but he looked and _was_ guilty about it, and really, Ginny’s probably yelled at him enough. Ron still narrows his eyes slightly, but he shrugs and lets it go, and Harry relaxes, just a little. “Right.” Ron said, and Harry winced, rubbed at the back of his neck. “She, uh, she also just kind of wanted to rant at me a little.”

“Why?” Ron asked.

“Something about the Locket.” He said. “How it felt familiar. How – how something else felt familiar, and how she wanted me to know but she knew telling me would just end up with me doing something stupid, so she couldn’t, and she was pretty fucking tired of it, and also that the occlumency was helping a little in figuring out what it was, the thing, but it wasn’t – whatever it was, she wasn’t happy about it.”

She wouldn’t be. Ron knew telling Harry would be a recipe for disaster, so he didn’t. 

“No idea what it is myself,” Ron said.

“Yeah, you do.” Harry said. “You’re a truthful drunk.”

“Right,” Ron let out. “What’d I say?”

Harry tapped his forehead. He looked disturbed, quite rightly so. “That it felt familiar. The magic around it.”

“It does,” Ron admitted. “A bit. Like the Locket.”

“Like the diary,” Harry let out. “All three. Similar. Familiar. _The same_ , right?”

“I don’t know.” Ron said. He hadn’t really known much about the diary Tom Riddle. “Ginny knows better.”

“Which is why she was ranting at me,” Harry said. “And now, full circle.”

Harry went into their room, and Ron followed.

* * *

 

When he woke up, Harry wasn’t in his bed. He wasn’t in the kitchen, or in the basement room – Ginny was there, though, and she looked concerned enough, so he figured letting her help look wasn’t a bad idea, really – he wasn’t in Buckbeak’s room either… or what _was_ his room, and Ron can remove the animal from the list of people here.

(Ginny was back, duh. She’d been added back onto the list a few days ago.)

They didn’t find him – Ron thought that, well, Harry had probably donned his invisibility cloak and disappeared off somewhere.

And. Well. It gave Ron time to write another letter to the headmaster since he hadn’t really responded to the last one.

And Mad-Eye didn’t like letters, but he’d asked for updates, so Ron figured maybe Dumbledore could pass them on if it wasn’t too much to ask? You know, for security reasons. And, well, Mad-Eye’s paranoia.

* * *

 

_Headmaster Dumbledore,_

_So Harry figured it out. Kind of. I mean, I guess, me and Ginny might have… I don’t know. Let something slip. Anyway, we can’t find him._

_I think maybe none of us here can really do much about him being all… well. He disappeared off somewhere and we’re looking all over Grimmauld, but we can’t find him._

_Anyway. Could you give the other letter to Mad-Eye? He doesn’t want them sent, but how he expects updates if we can’t send them… eh._

_And, I’d like to know if you got my last letter, too. Otherwise, I can send it again._

_Ron._

* * *

 

“So you’ve given the boy a book on Occlumency, old friend?” Dumbledore asked, eyes twinkling, tone practically bubbling with mirth.

“The lot of ‘em need to close off their minds if they’re going to be around the Order,” Mad-Eye said, gruffly. “It’s just sense.”

“Constant vigilance,” Dumbledore agreed. “Here,” He said, and slid the letter over to Mad-Eye. “I didn’t read it all, but he hadn’t sealed it properly - or at all,” Dumbledore sighed. “Forgive an old man for his curiosity?”

Mad-Eye grunted and pocketed the letter.

The school year passed by quick enough, for the rest of the students. But those who knew, those who understood, were on edge, and time seemed to crawl as they waited for it – the other shoe to drop, the time when the Death Eaters announced their presence.

Ron still hadn’t gotten anything from Dumbledore, but Mad-Eye hadn’t seen fit to hide the fact that the man had read Ron’s letter, so that was annoying, but there wasn’t much he could do. Anyway, they’d moved on entirely from the last topic, and were now on defensive magic and, just as something Moody thought they should know, battle strategy. And proper Duelling. Not the fancy stuff Lockhart attempted to teach them in second-year, but real duelling, the kind you’d find between mortal enemies, between people on opposite sides of a war.

Regardless - it didn’t go by quickly for them. People like Harry and Ron and Hermione and Ginny and even Luna, Neville, other people who were _paying attention._

* * *

It didn’t take _too_ long to get his Occlumency mind place thing built up, though it was nearly exam time by that point. And it didn’t take too long for Harry or Hermione or Ginny, either. Apparently, the girls had been working on it together, and Ginny had been sharing with Neville and Colin, and Parvati had badgered Hermione into sharing with her dorm mates. Which included Lavender.

“Honestly,” Hermione huffed, as she slid onto the bench in the great hall across from Harry and Ron. “She couldn’t focus enough. Too busy wondering if Dean’s dating –” Hermione pursed her lips and sighed. “Well, to paraphrase, she’s too busy wondering who’s dating who and how best to style her hair and which lipstick went best with her skin tone.”

“Sounds tiring,” Harry said. He looked a lot better, now, actually, come to think of it. Ginny had cornered him about a week ago and seemed to be performing some kind of emergency therapy or something, and while she was obviously no professional, she had _experience,_ and that seemed to work well enough.

“I want to go into Quidditch first,” Ginny had said, one night, staring after Harry when he went up to bed. Ron had stayed down to finish a chess match he was _this close_ to winning.

“I do.” She glanced at him. “But maybe going into mind-healing wouldn’t be so bad, when I’m too old. Helping people like that. Therapy.”

People like _me,_ she didn’t say, but Ron figured he knew his sister well enough to guess. Ron had nodded, and that had been that.

“Very,” Ron agreed, and shared a supressed grin with his friend. “Oh, honestly,” Hermione snapped.

“Come on,” Ron said. “You were just complaining, we’re only agreeing.”

She _harrumphed;_ made that sound of deep disapproval, then started eating.

* * *

 

O.W.L.s came and went. Harry had passed out in HOM, but Ron managed to catch him before he hit his head on the stone floor, and that apparently woke him up. They both had to retake the exam, but that was fine, or whatever.

Still. They came and went.

“I’d had this -” Harry sighed. “It wasn’t that I passed out or fell asleep or something. It kind of felt like something was forcefully dragging me out of my own head and into theirs, or something. It hurt, anyway, that’s why I fell.”

“What was it?” Ron asked.

“A – like a fake memory,” Harry said. “Watery. Strange. Dreamlike.” Harry paused. “Not like the one with your Dad and the snake, not like the ones last year; with Voldemort and Pettigrew.” Harry frowned. “Sirius was there.” He said. “Being tortured. But why would he be there? He hasn’t left the house, and he’s reckless, but not _that_ reckless, and anyway, after the exam I just had a look through the mirror. He picked up and lo and behold, not in the ministry being tortured, so.” Harry shrugged.

“Ministry?” Ron asked.

“Oh.” Harry said. “Yeah, all year, I’ve been having these dreams. I mean, you’ve noticed, right?” Harry eyed him, and Ron nodded. “You’re not exactly subtle about it, mate.” Ron said. Harry shrugged. “Well, it’s this corridor. Like – on the level of the ministry my hearing was on. And there’s a door, the one Malfoy Senior was standing in front of while talking with Fudge just before the hearing.” Harry frowned. “This was the third time I’ve seen past the door... it was the first time that didn’t just show me some orb thing.”

“Prophecies,” Ron said. “You must have seen the DOM.”

“The _what_ now?” Harry said, raising an eyebrow at Ron.

“The Department of Mysteries.” Ron said. “Fred and George managed to catch some stuff, remember? That was one of the bits of info they got.”

“Right, of course,” Harry nodded, remembering. “Yeah, well, anyway, I guess we know what Voldemort wants.” He said.

“What?” Ron blinked at Harry. “Wait – you think he wants a prophecy?”

“Yeah.” Harry said. “And I think it’s the one with my name on it.”

They waited until Hermione was done with her Arithmancy exam, and then explained to her what they’d figured out.

“Oh, good thinking,” She nodded, gaze critical, staring at nothing as she worked it over in her head. “Yes, of course. He _would_ believe in prophecies, wouldn’t he?” She frowned. “But, from what I’ve read, a prophecy can only be taken by the person that it bears the name of. People, in some occasions.” She frowned at them, assessing. “So he could only get it if you got it for him.”

“Clever, then.” Harry said. “The vision with Sirius.”

“Shoddy work though,” She sniffed. “From what you’ve said.”

“It would have worked if I didn’t have any defence against it.” Harry said. “Or contact with Sirius literally right here.” He patted his bag.

Hermione eyed Ron, and he frowned at her. “I’m glad you got the book from Professor Moody,” She said. “Otherwise we’d have been sitting ducks.”

Ron nodded, shrugged, immediately uncomfortable at the thought.

“Right,” Harry said, and Ron knew he was grimacing just from his voice. Hermione sighed and brushed her hair away from her face – though it didn’t stay gone – and nodded, decidedly.

“Let’s visit Professor Dumbledore,” She said. “He should know.”

Harry’s grimace briefly turned into a glower, then he shrugged, turned around.

“Where are you going?” Hermione asked after him.

“Might as well get it out of the way,” Harry said, bitingly. “So that we don’t take _too much_ of his time, and all.”

* * *

 

The gargoyle did it’s very best to frown at Harry, and Ron sighed.

“Could you please tell Dumbledore that –” Hermione sighed. “That Hermione and Ron are here to see him?”

“Of course,” The farm girl in the painting just to their left said. “By the way – I like your ‘air today,” She smiled, winked, and fled out of her frame.

Hermione blinked rapidly, then shrugged. She tentatively picked up a strand of her hair and stared at it, stretched it out straight and watched as it bounced back into it’s tight curls. “I haven’t done anything different,” She said. “The farm girl’s seen it every time I’ve come down this corridor.”

“Maybe she just likes giving out compliments?” Harry offered, ignoring the complaints of the occupants of the painting he was leaning against.

“Stop leaning against the sentient paintings, Harry,” Hermione sighed.

The gargoyle seemed to perk up, then nodded at them and moved aside. They ascended to Dumbledore’s office, and the three entered.

“Ah – Harry.” Dumbledore paused. “Of course.” He nodded and gestured to the two chairs opposite. “I’m afraid there’s only two chairs, but please, sit,” He picked up a sweet from his candy bowl and smiled at them, eyes twinkling. “Sherbet lemon?” He offered.

“No thank you, headmaster,” Hermione said, politely. “We’ve come here because of something…” She hesitated, glancing between Ron and Harry before sighing. “Voldemort tried to convince Harry to go to the Department of Mysteries with a false vision of Sirius being tortured, sir.”

“Ah.” Dumbledore sobered, slightly. “False, Miss Granger?”

“False,” She confirmed.

“Sirius picked up when I called him on the mirror,” Harry said. “And the vision wasn’t very well made.”

Dumbledore’s eyes began to twinkle again. “I imagine it was masterfully crafted, my boy, but Tom was always arrogant. What one can do with a proper mind palace will always beat any legilimens, regardless of whether they’re naturally talented or trained to be such.”

Dumbledore gestured to the chairs, again, then said, “Why, but we have magic,” And conjured up a third, which Harry sat on. “A shortage of chairs need not be a problem.” He smiled at them.

“Now,” He continued, sobering – his expression deadly serious. “Do you know yet why Voldemort wished you to go to the Department of Mysteries?” He asked.

“A prophecy,” Harry said.

“I’ve read all about it,” Hermione added. “They can only be picked up by the person who’s name they bear.”

“Or persons,” Ron added.

“Good! Good,” Dumbledore smiled at them. “Well, I certainly feel as if a tragedy has been avoided today, don’t you?” He added, nodding to himself. “Yes, indeed.” He looked at Harry, then sighed. “If you would, Miss Granger, Mr. Weasley, leave us for a few minutes? We have something to discuss.”

Ron felt a little reluctant, and it was obvious Hermione did too, but she nodded, and Harry gestured for them to go, so Ron got up and followed Hermione out of the Office.

* * *

 

Harry explained to them exactly what Dumbledore had told him in the office – about the prophecy, about everything. None of them were to know, not until the next morning, thanks to a rushed article and not a few overworked and severely tired Prophet staff, that _You-Know-Who_ was _back,_ had _attacked the Ministry,_ and that, in his ire, the Department of Mysteries had been destroyed, along with the atrium, and the statue held within.

The following summer, after they got back from Hogwarts, was bound to be interesting, Ron reckoned. And not in a good way.

The war had finally started.

**Author's Note:**

> This was made entirely because Ron needs more love in this fandom. It has spawned me wanting to write various fics from various perspectives that flaunt their canon-divergent nature in the face of the Epilogue and Cursed Child, yep. 
> 
> (I don't /hate/ the Epilogue, per say, but IRL things just... they don't always turn out that clean, and for HP, sure, why not, but like... HP is also a story with what amounts to /child soldiers/. And literal martyrdom. Some tweaks to the endgames aren't gonna kill anyone. 
> 
> Anway!! I'd love to hear your thoughts on all this :).


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